


These Mortal Desires

by lasirene



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Major Original Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slow Updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8983441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasirene/pseuds/lasirene
Summary: Erika Deforest came to New York lost and desperate. Chased by ghosts of her past, she finds her way Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Desperate to start a new chapter and leave her past behind, she takes up an offer to move in until she gets her feet fully under her.But the longer she stays, the less she wants to leave. And what can she possibly do about her growing feelings for the Wolverine?





	1. A Bolt From the Blue

            The day was perfect for a stroll, and Erika Deforest had every intention of utilizing it.  She had hated her old residence, a small and cramped apartment shared with a man she could not decide whether to love or loathe.  Here, in this veritable mansion full of countless inhabitants, she was content to spend the rest of her days if she could.

            Fall had slipped in and wrapped itself around the world.  The leaves were curled, now shades of gold and orange and red.  It was not, in her eyes, as pretty as Paris in autumn, but nothing was like Paris.  She knew that, yet she couldn't stop from comparing.

            She did not care about the sounds of New York City, whose residence within she had just abandoned only a matter of weeks ago, and it was a relief to finally be away; Paris had never been so obnoxious a place, and she had never missed it more than in those days in the apartment, when she had commuted across the city to the Metropolitan Opera.  It was all so different from her homeland, so much louder and sharper.  Even the Metropolitan Opera was sickeningly unlike Le Palais Garnier with its rich gothic architecture and stunning interior.  And the people, all cold and rude and disinterested.

            But now, she was out of the city.  And here was a place she could catch her footing on.

            The name of the place was Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, and it was a place for mutants.  _Homo superior_.  Children of the atom.  Like her.

           

            She was nothing special; a low breed of empath that could illicit emotions and induce hypnosis through voice and will, and though she could feel emotions, she couldn’t take them away like her more advanced brethren.  Her mutation was weak, non-combative.  Most of the students, however, were far more dangerous.  They were at the school to learn how to control their powers, as well as the ethics behind being a mutant.  It was a precarious life to lead, that much was for certain.

            The school was in the mansion home of Charles Xavier, the founder of the school.  And it was a massive place; even with all the students and teachers, there were still empty rooms to be filled with any mutant who needed a place to stay for a brief - or extended - time.  Erika was grateful of that; had she been forced to stay in that apartment for much longer, it was hard to say what would have happened.

            She sighed to herself as she began her fourth round about the lavish mansion.  She had been sharing the space with Éric Moreau, a mutant of mixed capabilities.  He was a telepath, as well as an umbrakinetic; in short, he could read minds and control shadows as if they were living things.  Standing past six feet tall, his height towered over Erika's far smaller frame; she was only a few inches above than five feet, and even with heels, she could never hope to not be shrunk by his presence.  He was a dark man, seeming to carry his shadows with him, and rarely had a kind word or smile to share.

            Their relationship had been a strange thing.  Éric had offered to teach her, to become her own personal singing instructor.  But the dynamic between them had steadily changed, rather to the chagrin and ill ease of Erika's parents, and in time, they had become something more than friends, or student and teacher.

            He had kissed her, had said he loved her, and at only the age of eighteen, she had known no better than to believe him.

            When their relationship had finally crashed on the rocks, Erika had tried to flee; had almost made it, too.  But he had followed her, and so they had come together to New York City.  He had taken up paying for their overpriced apartment, had moved in his piano, and set about to establishing his musical genius in the city.  In no time, he had snared gigs in a wide array of places, from smoky bars to beautiful concert halls.  Even in the short span of months they had been in the city, he was already becoming a name.

            Erika, with her voice that was as angelic as it was sultry, had met with less success.  The Metropolitan Opera was a world of fierce competition, and earning even a contract of a few months to star in mezzo-soprano roles was no easy thing.  She had been Paris' rising darling songbird, but here she was no one.  She had supplemented her small opera presence by accompanying Éric to his shows, and sometimes he let her sing.  Usually he soaked up his own limelight.

            It had been madness, a sickening routine.  When she was not being led along in fine evening attire to concert halls to see the work of a true maestro, or in the opera house practicing or performing, she was in Central Park.  Never in the apartment, where they never ran the lights and Éric ruled in his own small, black kingdom.  Central Park was bright, kissed by the sun and embraced by the wind.  It was her salvation.

            In more ways than she had expected.

            She paused in her repeating circuit, wrapping her arms slowly around herself.  A smile came to her Cupid's bow mouth, and even though there was no one to witness it, she still ducked her head to hide it.  There was a ray of hope, however small, but it was there.  If only he would see it, too.

            She had tried to save herself, and had failed.  She had been about ready to try again - had been bracing herself to do it, even - on the fateful day when her path crossed completely with the path of a man named Logan Howlett.

            He was not what she had expected him to be.  Her first impression had been an accurate description of the outer shell he wore like so much armor; cold, distant, sharp, fearless, a man who had no care for anyone save a select few.  The truth, as she was coming to find, was far more interesting.  Rather, he was not cold, nor always distant, and usually he was soft, and he certainly had his share of fears if the stories of his nightmare episodes were anything to go by.  But most important of all was the fact that he did care, deeply at that.  He cared for the school, for the students, for the other members of the X-Men.

            Still smiling to herself, Erika brushed a stray lock of dark curls out of her face.  The wind yanked it right back, making her look up and laugh to herself before she plunged along on the rest of her journey.  There was much to think about today before the routine took over.

            Logan was, like most of the affectionately dubbed ‘X-Men’, one of the teachers in Xavier’s school.  He doubled up on history lecturer and hand-to-hand combat instructor.  The man was perfectly crafted for both roles; his long life had given him a firsthand viewpoint of a large portion of America’s history, and he was a primal force when it came to fighting.  His mornings, and early afternoons, were occupied by instructing his pupils.  After that was over, however, he was free to do as he pleased.  And it seemed he had taken Xavier’s suggestion of mentoring and helping Erika to heart.

            Perhaps he felt responsible for her.  It was he who brought her to the school; he had told her it had been a spur of the moment invitation, just as her acceptance of it had been improvised.  He had shown her around, introduced her to a few charming and kind individuals.  And when the Professor had invited to give her house and home, she had been unable to refuse.

            Logan had helped her move in even, carrying far more luggage than he should have been able to.  He had ignored Éric, who had trailed Erika like a shadow; Logan’s eyes had been for her alone, and he had made sure she wanted for nothing that day.  Éric had sneered after he left, but had soon quit when Erika refused to afford any reaction.

            He truly was her mentor, a person she could hunt down and talk to about anything; about the transition of coming to a new country, about trying to move past Éric even as he refused to do the same, about her childhood and how much she missed her parents sometimes.  He always listened with the same single-minded intensity that he seemed to do everything with.  It was flattering, really.

            Perhaps too flattering.  Erika sighed to herself, arms winding around her body as she turned the last corner around the building.  Logan was not interested in her; he was interested in Jean Grey, the fiery haired telepath that had him leashed and caged beside her.  Erika had heard enough about them to draw that their relationship was tenuous.  There was a strange bitterness between them that they both tried to ignore.

            Regardless, when it came to love, Logan’s heart was long since handed away.  She was being hopeless, ridiculous even.

            Erika fled indoors, knowing the bleak shift of her mood would surely follow her, but hoping to outrun it either way.  Perhaps if she walked fast enough-

            She ducked through the doors and made a straight line to the stairs.  The clatter of her shoes against the wood flooring was a staccato rhythm that chased her down the hall.  She spun around the corner, so intent on reaching her destination that she could ignore everyone else that she passed by with ease.  She as good as threw herself inside, leaving the door mostly shut behind her.

            The room itself was quite simple; a bed, a few chairs, a rug, a window with a beautiful view.  The only furnishings she had added herself had been an easel and a small piano.  The furnishings were simple, modest, a total contrast to the single chair of gothic style she had placed herself.  It was a space that held no trace of its inhabitant.  It was cool and impersonal.  Lonely.  Regardless of how much she liked the school itself, it was not her home.

            She was halfway across the floor, heading towards the large window and its seat, where she had left her book; her intent was to sit and read until she felt better.  The sound of knuckles rapping on her door made her stop and frown to herself.

            About on her heel and back to the door, pushing her hair back from her face as she went.  She pulled the door wider, and was startled to find a bouquet of roses pushed at her.  Instinct, and perhaps a bit of conditioning from the opera, had her reaching out with a beaming smile she did not truly feel, taking the bouquet and cradling it in her arm.  A laugh escaped her, one of total surprise, and she looked up to see who had been so courteous to bring flowers for a visit.

            She could not have been more surprised if she had woken up back in France.  As if summoned by thought alone, there in her door stood Logan, a smug smile pulling at his mouth.

            “Logan!”  Bewildered and delighted, she stepped back, nodding for him to come in.  “Whatever ‘as possessed you, mon ami?”  In her humored state, her natural accent came through a breath thicker than usual.

            “Thought the space could use some decoratin’,” he replied as he ducked past her.  His boots tromped audibly on the floor; sometimes, though, he walked in silence, like a grand feline.  It was something that never ceased to amaze Erika.

            “I could not agree more,” the Parisienne remarked as she followed him into the room.  While Logan did his usual perusal of her space, Erika set about to finding a large vase and filling it with water.

            “You’ve been busy.”

            She looked up from carefully placing the flowers in their new home, unsurprised when she found him standing by the occupied easel.  The painting that was almost finished was simple, but colorful; a view out her window of the forest, caught in the riot of fall colors.  Logan had been keeping tabs on her progress since she started it shortly after moving in.

            “What else would I be doing?”  Erika laughed faintly under her breath as she returned to arranging the flowers.  “When you are not ‘ere to mentor me, or train me, and when I am not wiz Éric for a singing lesson, I ‘ave little else to do.”

            “Sounds like quite the life.  Relaxin’, doin’ whatever y’feel like.”

            “It is not that wonderful.  It is rather empty.”  And lonely.  She had never felt lonely until she had come to this cold city.  Paris housed her family; New Orleans was her own entity and enough to keep anyone company; but New York was cruel.

            “Only if you make it that way.”  His voice was much closer, and when Erika turned around, it was to find him just a few steps away from her.  His eyes were a dark brown; she knew if she watched long enough, he would turn his head and the colors would shift.

            Erika tossed her head, arms folding under her breasts.  “And ‘ow would I go about changing that?”

            “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he urged, thumbs hooking in the pockets of his jeans as he shifted his weight, “but y’don’t exactly get out much.”

            “Coming from the social recluse of the X-Men?”  She shook her head slightly, arms dropping back to her sides.  She paced past him, making her way to the easel.  “I am still settling in.  I shall ‘get out’ later.”

            “At least make my droppin’ by worthwhile,” he invited.  Without waiting for her to invite him to, he took a seat in one of the chairs that were set to accommodate relaxing and talking.

            Easier said than done when sometimes something he did would make her remember that her bed was just steps away and that it was quite easy to get out of clothes when you were excited.

            “I do not ‘ave much to say,” she replied, turning back to the roses to stroke their velvet soft petals.  Red roses, the color of passion, congratulations.  Romance.

            “Talked to your parents lately?”

            She smiled a bit to herself, finally turning back and drifting over to the chair across from his.  She sat down fast enough that the light material of her mid length skirt flared slightly.  “What makes you ask that?”

            Logan inclined his dark head towards the easel.  Erika noted the way a bit of hair was about to come loose and collapse against his brow in a way that she had seen countless times before already.  “Your dad’s an artist, too.”

            Her smile grew into a grin, though it was small.  “You listen to me.”

            “Why wouldn’t I?  Can’t exactly play mentor if I don’t listen.”

            “You could pretend to.”  It is what Éric did.  Unsaid, but she knew she did not have to say it for Logan to understand.

            He had an uncanny knack for understanding.

            Logan leaned forward, his eyes brilliant and intense as he met her gaze. “I wouldn’t do that to you.  You deserve respect.”

            Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment she could only regard him.  What would she have given to have been treated like this all the time?  What would she have done to have had Éric treat her that way?

            Logan’s smile was kind.  And it whispered that he knew.


	2. Black and Blue

            The painting was what she worked on when she was thinking.  And she was thinking hard.

            Drumming her nails against the plastic lid that she had popped off the palate, Erika chewed on the end of her brush as she stared at the canvas.  Even as part of her mind assessed its state and determined the next steps, the rest of her mind was turning the subject of Logan and Éric over and over in her mind.

            The men were so different, that holding them in positions of comparison was more than bizarre.  Éric was tall and towering, whereas Logan, while tall enough, was certainly closer to her own height; Erika knew she had a few pairs of heels that would put them practically eye to eye.  Éric was small, narrow; Logan was large, broad.  Both were men of power, but in vastly different ways.  Erika feared Éric, whereas Logan somehow personified a place of safety.

            She only feared Éric because he had made her fear him.  He had turned cruel in ways she did not understand; his logic had been so straightforward when he shared it that she had even agreed with him.  Until he took it too far, and she realized that the love between them was nothing like that which stood between her parents.  Theirs was a love that was sweet and gentle, equal parts of give and take.  With Éric, it had been so odd and unbalanced; Erika gave her all, and Éric took everything she gave.  All he had ever given her was help in her career, and while she appreciated that – appreciated his musical genius and natural talent – it was not what she had needed in those bleak and dark days after the accident.

            The accident.  She had not mentioned it to Logan.  She did not know that she could mention it to Logan.  Or anyone.  As much of a part of her as it was, it was something that brought her grief and sorrow even after the years that had passed by.  She had never meant to do it, but that did little to assuage the guilt that ripped and roared through the cavern of her chest.

            The black sea still lurked across the beach of her mind.  Most days the tide was low, leaving the demons lying in the damp sand as they struggled to breathe.  But sometimes, in the dark of deep night, the tide rushed in high, swept the demons up and ran to pour itself over her.

            The painting was almost finished.  A bit of a touch up in the leaves, the last bit of grass at the very forefront, and it would be _fini_.  She wanted it finished.  She wanted it to be a hallmark of a new life.

            But was it really that easy?

            Why could her heart not have stumbled its way into the path of someone else, anyone else?  Why Logan, of all people?  What about him was more appealing than any number of other eligible men?  There was Kurt – so blue and so sad, but beautiful, and so kind to even those who would mock him; she admired him, his courage and strength.  Warren, a right and proper Angel with his massive wings and charming grin, arrogant and beautiful as well. Plenty others she had not had the courage to meet yet.  She could list them for hours.

            And then there was Logan.  Gruff, hard Logan, with his eyebrow quirks and glares, calloused hands, dense muscles, short temper, and andalusite eyes.  Brusque and uncouth.  So different from the pretty worded boys she had always simpered over as a girl, the velvet voiced man that had lured her in before.  A total one-eighty.

            But sometimes, when the mood struck him, he was just as pretty worded, even more so if she were lucky.  He was old, ancient even, though he hardly looked over thirty.  Over a hundred years stood between him and his birth, and sometimes he spoke as if he stood a century away.  Sometimes flowers bloomed from his lips, elegant and sweet and brilliant enough to woo.  There was something lovable about the man, even if he scowled at the children running wild and even if he grumbled about teaching; there was no fire behind those gestures.  Erika thought they were really just for show.

            Odd man, him.  A very odd man.

            Impossible, though.  He would never be hers to have and to hold.  He was Jean’s through and through.

            And yet those flowers he had brought her stood in a vase on her dresser, crimson and permeating the air with their sweet scent.  She had stared at them for a long time after he left, studying their shape and color and scent, and determining they had come from a florist’s shop.  A good one, at that.  Why would he do that if he felt nothing towards her?  And red; why red?  Oh, why was he this way, with all his confusion?

            And would she ever have any answers?

***

            “ _Oof!_ ”

            She hit the ground hard, wincing as her palms skidded across the mat and left sharp pangs of heated pain on her skin.  Erika shifted so she was braced on the side of one leg, her other foot already pressing into the mat for purchase to spring aside.  Her lips, still whispering red from lipstick she’d smeared off, were drawn back in what was almost a snarl as she rubbed ruefully at her backside.

            “Y’really gotta work on defense,” Logan said from behind her.  Erika tensed, wondering if he was signaling Rogue to move in to attack again.

            The decision to not spar Logan had seemed like a good one an hour ago.  She had underestimated Rogue.  Gravely.

            “I am doing my best,” Erika hissed as she stood back up, shaking her arms out.  The light tank top she wore was a stark contrast to Rogue’s attire.  Not that she blamed the girl.  Quite the contrary.  To Erika’s chagrin, though, she had no sleeve to cover the bruise that was forming on her arm from one of many hits she had failed to dodge.

            “Well, your best needs a lil improvement.”

            “Play nice, sugah,” Rogue replied, shooting him a disapproving glance from her green eyes.  “Not everyone’s a born fightah like you!  Why don’t we all take a breathah, get some watah, and try some more aftah.”

            Erika threw the other woman a grateful glance, even a smile when Logan gave a slight grunt that was to be interpreted as agreement.  Logan didn’t go easy on anyone, that much she had known, so earning a break was quite a relief.  Especially given how much she hurt from head to toe.

            She limped out of the pseudo boxing ring, still rubbing at the newest bruises.  She didn’t know the first thing about fighting; she’d never expected to need it.  It was a bit of a regret now, in the given circumstances.

            It was only made a little worse with Logan and Rogue chatting in the idle way that spoke of a long-standing friendship.  She had known the two knew each other for some time, but there was something . . . off between them.  As if some wedge had driven between them.

            Sitting on the bench, dangling a water bottle in hands hung limp between her parted legs, she made a mental note to ask about it later.  For now, she was too busy catching her breath.  Her hair, once a neat ponytail, had fallen completely apart.  Fine wisps clung to her sweaty skin; she pushed some back carefully, avoiding as much contact with her skin as possible to try and not smudge the foundation she wore.

            “When’s Remy comin’ back from his job?”

            Logan didn’t reply immediately, which coaxed Erika’s attention back to the pair.  Logan seemed tenser, the set of his jaw sharper.

            “What’s it to ya?” he asked before taking a drink of his water.

            “Jus’ wonderin’,” Rogue replied.  Her mouth drew into a sullen pout as she tossed her bottle back and forth.

            “Rems will be back when he gets back.”  Logan stood up abruptly, dropping his bottle to the ground.  “We’re not done here.”

            Erika couldn’t see, but given the sound of the sigh Rogue gave up, she could guess that the younger woman was rolling her eyes.  “I can’t.  Got a date with Bobby, remember?  Mentioned it twice.”

            Logan huffed in reply and made a shooing gesture.  “Get outta here.  Clean yourself up.”

            “Duh,” she replied.  One of her gloved hands raised as she stood up in a playful sort of wave.  “Good luck, Erika!  You’re gonna need it with him.”

            Erika frowned a little to herself as Rogue wandered out.  With a little huff and pursed lips, she put her attention back on Logan.

            “I dare say she abandoned me,” she mused aloud.

            “It’ll be fine,” Logan replied with a bit of a smile.  “Might even make me go a lil easier.”

            “I doubt that,” she replied as she stood up.  Erika raised her arms overhead, hands interlocking as she stretched upward.  “Who is Remy?”

            When she looked at Logan, it was just in time to see a smile.  “Friend o’ mine.  Two o’ you would prob’ly get along.”

            “I assume ‘e is a mutant?”

            “Of course.  Thief, too, which is why he isn’t here.”

            “As in a petty thief, or the Guild type?”

            She had the satisfaction of seeing surprise flashing over Logan’s face. She hadn’t known him for long, but long enough to know such a feeling was uncommon, and it was even rarer that he would show it.  She flashed him a bright grin.

            “Well?” she prompted.

            “Guild.  How do you know about that?”

            “My grandparents live in New Orleans, and we would go and visit for a few weeks in the summer every year.”  Erika shrugged a little.  “There are markings everywhere in the city, designating which Guild rules the area.  They explained to me the two Guilds and that I shouldn’t go in the one’s area because they were not always nice, and if I went in the purple area I ‘ad to keep track of my money carefully.”

            “Well maybe the two o’ you already met, then.  Not impossible.”

            “I cannot say without ‘aving seen him.  Now, training?”

            Logan jerked a thumb towards the punching bags hanging on the other side of the room.  “Take it over there and let’s get back at it.”

***

            “So how’d the rest of trainin’ go?” Rogue asked as she sat down beside Erika in the kitchen.

            The Parisienne gave a slight laugh as she continued to mix her tea.  “Badly.  We did not spar, but the punching bag still beat me I think.”

            “You’ll get bettah, promise,” Rogue said with a smile.  “I didn’t know a thing about fightin’ when I first got here, and look at me now.”

            “Beating me by a mile,” Erika replied as she pulled the stirring stick out of her tea and wrapped her hands around the warm cup.  “I understand the use, I do.  But it seems a little useless for me, at least.  I am not exactly a combative-ready mutant, non?”

            “Better safe than sorry, though.  Never know when you’ll be out and needin’ it.”

            “Je sais, je sais.  But I fear I will get nowhere with this ‘and to ‘and combat.”  She held out a hand, sniffing disdainfully at the light bruises forming on her knuckles.  She had changed since training, showered also, and had winced through the whole thing as she found more and more bruises.  A motley of black and blue all over her body.  Art, in its own violent way.

            “Keep your hopes up!  Logan’s a good teacher.  Lil rough round the edges, but he’s a good guy.”

            Erika muttered an agreeable sound as she took a sip from her tea.  Logan was a good man, and that was the root of all the problems flinging around in her head.

            “You gone quiet,” Rogue drawled, her Southern accent thickening with the teasing.  “Got somethin’ ya wanna say?”

            Erika turned to Rogue with a small smile.  “‘Ow did your date go?”

            Rogue smiled, tucking some hair behind her ear.  “Pretty good, I guess.  But you’re avoidin’ my question.”

            “There is nothing to say on the subject.  Logan is ‘elping me; I appreciate that.  Nothing more.”

            “If ya say so,” Rogue drawled in reply.  “I’ll let it go this time.  Next time I ain’t gonna go easy, sugah.”

            Erika smiled slightly at the young woman.  “Of course not.”


	3. Gambit

            She had strong legs.  Strong enough that her anger-driven kick into Logan’s stomach had him actually hiss out a breath and take a step or two back.  Given his size and weight, she took that as quite the accomplishment.

            “Shit,” Logan said, his voice mild and good natured.  “Didn’t see that comin’.”

            Erika mimed a curtsy, lips drawn back in a slight snarl.  “Ballet is ‘andy for a few things it would seem.”

            “Do any acrobatics or anythin’?”

            “Non.  I never ‘ad the time to learn it.”

            “Could be useful.”  When Erika glanced up at him, it was to see an odd sort of look in his eye.  She frowned a little at him, head cocking downward.

            “Is everything all right?”

            Logan took a long breath; without the shirt he had decided to go ahead and ditch, Erika had nothing stopping her from taking in the sharply defined muscles of his arms, chest, stomach, everything.  Her eyes jerked downward in an attempt not to be observed admiring such wild beauty.

            “Nothing’s wrong,” Logan finally said.  “Just thinkin’.  Maybe I’m not the best teacher for you.”

            Erika glanced back up, blue eyes wide and bewildered.  “But who would do my training then?”

            “Remy.  Though you’ll likely be callin’ him Gambit a while.  His name’s only saved for friends.”  Erika was sure she did not imagine the nearly smug smile that flitted across his features.

            “What makes you think ‘e would do better?  Aren’t you the best there is at what you do?”

            “Sure.  But I’m brutal.  Rem’s got a lot more finesse to him.  Which is more the style you’d be goin’ for, I’m sure.”

            Erika gave a slight shrug.  “I suppose so.  But it is not as if I will be put in the field.”

            “Y’never know.  C’mon, though.  Should get back at it.”

            Erika sighed, rubbing at the faded bruises on her hands.  Logan had insisted on teaching her about the different targets on a person, and on using himself as a training dummy.  Now she was supposed to take what she had learned so far and use it against him.  He hadn’t laid a hand on her, except to block her movements, but hitting him anywhere was not comfortable.  His whole body was unyielding muscle, without even a shred of fat seemingly on him.  Her strength was minimal at best, and so every attack she managed to slip past his defenses was futile.

            “Must we?” she asked with another sigh.  She gestured with a brisk wave at him.  “It is pointless.  I am making no progress!”

            Logan shook his head, a stray few hairs brushing against his forehead.  “That kick was your best move yet.  We’ve only been goin’ for a week and you’ve come this far.  One more time–”

            Erika dragged her hands over her scalp with a low, throaty sound of disapproval.  She slipped into fighting position regardless.  “As you wish.”  She waited for Logan to start getting himself ready before she lashed out.  Her fist was half the size of his, but with it flinging towards him, Logan still jerked back with a yelp of surprise.  Erika bounded in closer, turning a little; her elbow jabbed into his side.  A hiss of discomfort shot out of Logan.  His whole body churned as he swung back towards her.  Erika sprang away, spinning as she landed to watch his hand cut through thin air.  She bounced back, already preparing for her next move.

            Logan whirled, grabbing onto her arm with one hand and giving her stomach a light hit; it was still enough to get her bent over partway, and he drove her down to the ground.  His claws snapped out, the tip just centimeters away from her heaving chest.  His eyes were gleaming with humor, though.

            “See? That was good,” he said, leaning back from his crouch over her.  “You just miscalculated how long it’d take me to recover.”

            Erika propped herself up on her elbows, still working to catch her breath from the violent exercise.  “Again then?”

            Logan shook his head, standing up briskly.  “I told you one more time and I stick t’my word.”  He held his hand out to her.  “You’re free t’go wherever you wanna go.”

            Erika regarded him for a moment before casting him a half-hearted smile.  She took his hand, reminding herself not to get too comfortable with how hers felt in his.  He pulled her up gently, catching her at the waist to make sure she remained stable.  The smile flickered across her features for a hesitant moment before she finally settled and stepped back.

            “Are we to commence tomorrow?”  Erika folded her arms around herself, as if to make a barrier between the two of them, one he would not be able to see beyond.

            “Sure,” Logan said.  He gave a little jerk of his head, motioning for her to come along with him.  “We’ll give it another whirl.  Might get you on a weapon soon, if you’ve got any in mind.”

            “All this just as a precaution?”

            “Sorta.  But you never know when we’ll need an extra hand on a mission.”

            Erika’s mouth quirked a little as she trailed a step or two after him.  Of course one could not know, but it was more than doubtful that someone as inexperienced and weak as her could ever be useful.  She made no verbal comment, though, opting instead to follow along in compliant silence.

            The lower level of the school was still a maze to Erika.  The silver halls were almost painfully brilliant, and combined with the slight echo of their steps, there was a cold and alien feel to the space that set her on edge.  Logan didn’t seem to mind, but she had little doubt that he was used to it.

            Maybe in time she could grow used to it as well.

***

            It felt good to shower off the sweat and change into attire more suited to herself.  Erika had a penchant for pretty dresses, and blouses and skirts.  She supposed her sense of fashion was what one would call classy, with a heavy dose of gothic influence thrown in for good measure.  Most of her wardrobe was dark colored, but there were some exceptions.

            The blouse she had changed into was one.  It was a cream-gold color, rather like champagne.  It was cut in a rather vintage style, with a near Victorian feel to its satin.  While her heels were a similarly pale color, her skirt was darker, red as the glass of wine in her hand and the lipstick on her mouth.  She just had to wait for her dinner to finish, and then she could eat and retreat to her room for the night.  What she would do then was a bit of a mystery.  Maybe a bit of reading before bed . . .

            Her train of thought was paused at the sound of voices.  It took only a second to recognize Logan’s rough sound, but the other had a twang that she recognized not from familiarity with its owner, but its origin.  She knew a Louisiana drawl as well as a French lilt; even more familiar was the New Orleans variant that was coming to her.  She could make an educated guess.  It had to be Remy LeBeau, or Gambit, back from his job.

            “You hungry?”  Logan there, equally concerned and friendly and sounding more happy than Erika could ever remember hearing him.  Erika glanced at the food she was preparing; the chicken legs had come in a pack of a dozen, which was far more than she would eat alone.  Maybe . . .

            “Mon ami, ya oughtta know by now dat dis Cajun’s always hungry.  Guess I’m gonna have ta cook somethin’ up though, non?  Lawd knows it ain’t gon’ be you, cher!”

            Logan snorted slightly.  “You’re gonna have t’wait.  Kitchen’s in use.”

            “Oh?  By who?”

            The door she had left partially open in the hopes of the scent enticing a guest or two for her meal swung open more fully.  She paused a moment over her halfway finished dish, tensing as the quiet cloaked the room.  She stared a moment longer at the chicken she had just put on to cook before she turned around.  Her mouth had already opened to offer the pair food when her eyes locked on the resident Thief, and her mouth stayed open in silent shock.  The hand holding her wine tipped down, and it was with great effort that she put the glass aside.

            Remy looked equally shocked, red and black eyes widened and tan complexion paled to a drained pallor.  He had grabbed onto Logan in what nearly looked like need, and from the alarmed look on Logan’s face, it was clear that the man was not one to show such a weakness.

            “What are you doing here?” Remy finally spilled out, words leaving in a rapid gust of breath.  The accent was gone, replaced with a dull and hollow voice.  “Where the hell have you even been?  You _vanished_ –”

            “I ‘ad to!” Erika cried back at him, one hand held out as if to keep him away.  “It was the only way!”

            Remy slid forward, grabbing onto a stool at the island counter and perching himself upon it.  He ran his hands over his face, rasping against the slight sandpaper of a needed shave, brushing away a few strands of auburn hair that had escaped the nearly perfect bun twisted at the back of his head.  “Dis don’ make any sense,” he muttered into his palms.

            Erika wilted against the counter, shrank even further when Logan gave a sharp growl.

            “I couldn’t agree more, Gumbo,” Logan spat out.  “What the fuck is this about?”

            “Sit down,” Erika urged.  “It seems we ‘ave much to discuss.”

***

            “When I was eighteen years old, I was signed onto a contract at Le Palais Garnier in Paris,” Erika said as she set the three plates of coq du vin before each of them.  She boosted herself up onto the high stool across from the two men.  Logan was already eating, but Remy was merely picking at his food.

            “It was a three-year contract,” she continued, “and at first everything was fine.  I ‘ad the job I always dreamed of, a master tutor to ‘elp my talent to keep growing.  Then it all went wrong.

            “Éric and I ‘ad more in common than I ‘ad ever ‘ad with anyone before.  I suppose it is only natural for romantic feelings to bloom in the ‘eart of a silly, naïve young woman such as I was then.  But I came to love him, and that was the undoing of it all.

            “As ze years went on, ze relationship between us worsened until I could stand it no more.  I did not renew my contract at ze beginning of ze summer, and when my family went to New Orleans as we always did, I did not return ‘ome.  I stayed wiz my grandparents.  I took a part time job at a library during ze day, and stalked nightlife ‘aunts to find some places where a little singing would be appreciated, and if I did not ‘ave work I would join any number of street players and offer my talent for free.  I ‘ad a time of peace, and thought per’aps Éric would be satisfied with only calling and texting me incessantly.

            “By February, I was well settled and quite ‘appy.  And February–”

            “Mardi Gras,” Logan cut in.  The curious frown that had furrowed his expression vanished quite suddenly.  “You jumped in.”

            “If you are in the city and young, you are foolish not to,” she replied with a shrug.  “I made a costume and went out for the night.”

            “You were a peacock,” Remy said, his voice low and slow with memory.  “Damn nice costume.  Still got it around?”

            Erika nodded with a small smile.  “I put far too much time into it to throw away.”

            “So you two met then?”

            “Oui,” Remy drawled out.  He had finally graced a smile, albeit a small one.  “Think my devil costume freaked her out a li’l bit at first, but we hit it off mo’ or less.  Danced for a while, got ta talkin’.  Picked up she was in a bit of a tight spot, offered ta help however I could.”

            “And while I appreciated the gesture,” Erika continued, a hint of gloom creeping into her voice, “I could not accept it.  Bad enough to talk with a ‘andsome rogue, worse yet to dance, and worse still to accept any offer form ‘im.”  She gave a forlorn sigh, poking at the wine flavored chicken on her plate.  “I should ‘ave said yes.”

            The three were quiet for a time, their silence occupied with the small sounds of silverware against plate and chewing.  Now it was Erika’s turn to pick at her food while both men were eating with gusto.

            “So how’d you end up here?” Logan finally asked.  He stood up, and Erika didn’t bother to watch; he was going for seconds, naturally.

            “Éric came,” she replied, with a dull finality that closed the subject.  She didn’t want to relive the explosive argument between them, not in memory or a verbal recount.  She pointed her fork towards Remy.  “And whatever are you doing ‘ere?  Isn’t zis a little north for you?”

            “Definitely,” Remy replied.  “Remy misses N’Awlins, always will.  He ain’t goin’ back ever.”

            Though curiosity pricked at her, Erika could not find it in her to ask.  Whatever the reason, it hurt him to think on it.

            “Was banished,” he offered.  “Ya know ‘bout de Guilds?  Oui?  Bon, don’ have ta explain all dat den.  Remy was s’posed ta end de feud ‘tween ‘em.  Married Belladonna Boudreaux, but her brother wasn’t happy ‘bout dat.  Challenged Remy to a duel, to the death.  Remy won, and fo’ his trouble, was chased right outta de city, right outta de state.  Had ta run fo’ a long time ‘fore I lost de Assassins.

            “Oh, dey sometimes come after Gambit, if he get too close ta dem.  Ain’t seen hide no’ hair o’ dem fo’ a long time, and da’s de way Remy LeBeau likes it.”  He raised his head finally, offering up one of the charming grins that Erika still remembered.  “Got a fine ole life now.  De X-Men don’ like Remy dat much, save a handful here and dere.”  The grin turned into a more wry expression, red and black eyes glinting as he inclined his head slightly.  “Don’t trust me, even after all dat’s happened.  Logan and Ro are de best exceptions.”

            Logan merely gave a grunt of reply as he sat down again.  He seemed too occupied with his food for sentimentality.

            Remy shook his head at Erika, as if to say ‘What can you do?’  “If ya ain’t figured it out, dis one here don’ talk all dat much, and ain’t much for warm, fuzzy feelin’s.”

            “I could ‘ave told you that,” Erika replied, her voice lilting in its Parisienne flair.  “Though from what I ‘ave seen, he ‘as an exception to the rule.”

            “Oui,” Remy replied.  Erika wondered if it was her desperate and hopeful imagination, or if his eyes really had given a brief, snapping glare of the magenta light that matched his powers.  “Miss Jean Grey.  Ya know he broke her up from ole One Eye?”

            “Pardon?”

            “Cyclops,” Logan finally supplied.  “Scott Summers.  Our good ole Fearless Leader.”

            “We got all sorts o’ names for him,” Remy said, another grin flashing white against his tan skin.  “Scott and Logan damn near hate each other.”

            “Because of Jean?” Erika asked as she pushed her finished plate aside.

            “We don’t get along,” Logan replied, his words flat and clipped with annoyance.

            Remy shrugged a little.  “If I had ta guess, Scott feels dat Logan barged in and took half his place.  Logan plays leader pretty damn well, sometimes better’n Boy Scout.  Prob’ly resents dat.  But sure, Logan flirtin’ all de time wit’ his girl didn’t help matters.  She finally decided for a change in scenery.”

            Erika frowned a little as she picked up her glass.  Something about Remy’s tone didn’t sit right with her; there was a sharpness, almost bitter, that didn’t add up.  As if Remy didn’t like the two of them together.

            It was, by and large, an interesting fact.

            Whether Logan noticed this, or ignored it, was hard to say.  He was scraping up the last scraps of food from his plate, which he chased down with a drink from his beer.  He finally cast a bit of a sideways glance at his friend.  Remy glanced back at him, eyebrows raised in silent inquiry.

            “We were just talkin’ today about who might be a better teacher for her,” Logan said.  Erika glanced aside a little, doing her best to ignore the little flutter of disappointment that ran through her.  “Struck me that maybe you’d be better.”

            Remy looked at Logan a moment longer, then shifted his gaze to Erika.  She looked up towards him, keeping her face impassive.  She knew, though, that she had no chance of hiding how she felt from Gambit.  He was an empath; he could sense her emotions and read them as easily as an open book.

            His devil eyes held a question, one that she could nearly him asking her.  _Do you love?_

            Erika’s eyes skipped away, down to her glass.  She glanced back up, looking through dark eyelashes at him.  His eyes softened, a knowing gleam in them.

            “You can teach her de basics better’n anyone else,” Remy said softly, looking back to Logan.  “You get her in shape, den we’ll have dis conversation again.”  He stood up, giving a languorous stretch that hitched his shirt up to expose a strip of tan stomach painted with silver scars.  “Merci for de dinner, Erika,” he said as he dropped his arms to pick up his dishes.  “Appreciate it, me.  But I’ve had a long few days and I’m beat.”

            Erika smiled a little at him.  “Of course.  Bonne nuit.”

            Remy murmured the same sentiment to her in the same tongue after setting his dishes in the sink.  He lighted a hand on her shoulder a moment before drifting to Logan.  The other man stood up, and Erika didn’t miss the surprised little sound that seeped out of Remy when the feral gave him a quick hug.  It didn’t last long, but its effect was evident on the Thief; Remy drifted off with a little more bounce to his step and a smile on his mouth.

            Logan scooped up his dishes, smiling a little himself.  “Guess you’re stuck with me for the time bein’.”

            Erika smiled as she slid off her stool.  “I suppose that is all right.”  She had to brush past Logan to reach the sink, and she didn’t miss the grin he threw her.

            “Just all right?”

            Erika rolled her eyes a little as she set her dishes down and turned the water on hot.  “You are ‘opeless, Logan.”

            “Sometimes,” he replied.  “Y’want some help with those?”

            Erika hesitated as she rolled up her sleeves.  She eyed him, both wary and hopeful.  The smile he gave was small, disarming.

            She agreed.

***

            Logan was not a neat person, but it had been nice to have the company.  Fun, too.  He’d turned nearly childish on her, flicking water at her as soon as she would start to let her guard down.  She’d filled a glass and thrown it on him in return – right in the face, too – and he’d outright laughed.

            He had a nice laugh.

            Erika paused at the door to her room, frowning at the bit of paper peeking out between the door and its frame.  She rested her hand on the cold handle and opened the door.  The note fluttered to the floor, and she picked it up slowly.  She ducked into her room and shut the door before sitting in her favorite chair, the high-backed, gothic one with black cushions.  She unfolded the note, smoothed it out in her lap.  She let her eyes flick down to the signature.  She tried to be surprised by the name there, and found no room for such a feeling.

            _Be patient, and be yourself.  He’ll come around._

            It was signed Remy LeBeau.


	4. Adagio

            Regardless of what had happened and what she had said and how it had sounded, Éric was not an evil man.  Not inherently.  Erika firmly believed no one was born evil.  Circumstances made evil.  And circumstances had not always been kind to Éric.

            His parents – a French father and Swedish mother – had differing views on the mutant issue.  His father loathed mutants and thought them to be abominations.  His mother was far more tolerant and kind.  Éric was their only son.  It was no surprise that when his powers raged up, his mother and the young boy swore to keep it a secret.

            Telepathy is not an easy secret to keep.  Éric tried, Erika was sure, but accidents came about and the truth was revealed.  In a small French town, such a thing was a horror.  It was as if everyone turned their back on the young teenager.  Was it no small wonder he had gone all dark and twisted inside?

            Erika was not mad at him.  Not really.  She did not forgive him for his treatment of her, but she had gotten past her anger.  There was just a sadness left behind instead.  She had loved him, in the ardent and wild way that first love procures.

            Éric had loved her, she supposed, in his own odd way.  Random proclamations of his affections, small gifts now and then.  At first he had been a cool and aloof gentleman, even after he had kissed her and they had been dating nearly four months.  And then without warning he became a different man.  A darker man.  It was if Erika had thrown back a curtain and revealed a whole new painting by some strange and tragic artist.

            Over those three years they had dated, Erika had come to know him better than she had ever thought she would.

            He had ruined the mind of his own father for the mere insult of saying no university would want a freak of nature such as a mutant.  And he had felt no real shred of remorse for it.

            He was of the mind that mutant kind was the dominant race, that someday they would rise and take the earth for their own.

            He smoked sometimes, when he was under heavy strains of stress or work.  Only one cigarette at a time, though, and it was such a rare thing it could be overlooked.

            He was a genius, a wild and wonderful genius.  He played chess and studied languages both living and dead.  He admired art for its quality rather than its expressive power.  He debated at any opportunity with anyone willing to humor him.  He would sit for hours without moving, only breathing, ironing his wild and dark powers out into silken smooth calm.

            He always wanted to know where she was and what she was doing, who she was talking to and why.  He was clinging and possessive, like a dragon guarding its captured princess.  It was a proprietary arm that he put around her, a possessive way that he hovered at her side in public places.  It was claustrophobic and tense and exhausting.

            He was a perfectionist by nature, and that same perfectionism reached out to twist her in its knots.  He had needed her to be perfect, to be exactly what he wanted.  He had critiqued her every performance, her every doodle or painting, her every outfit and twist of her hair and turn of her head.  Erika could never seem to please him.  And little by little, all the quirks that were first endearing began to itch at her patience, and every piece of advice became a harsh criticism.

            The worst had been in the last year, when Éric began to insist in fervent tones that no one would love a mutant that couldn’t even always control herself.  And he had put it so logically!  Truly, who would want to be with a woman that could manipulate her partner to do anything she wanted?

            And then he had hit her.  Only a few times, but even the thought of those times made her cheek sting with the strike of his hand.  Every time he had been immediately and tragically remorseful, holding her until her tears subsided, singing little French lullabies in his smoke-coarsened voice.  For days he would be sweet and tender, and Erika could forget all the fighting they would do that would lead to such a reaction. She could forget everything . . .

            Fingers snapped briskly, jerking Erika out of her trailing thoughts.  She turned her head, raising her eyebrows at the man seated at the piano.

            “You are the one who insisted I play so you could sing,” the man said in an accent not unlike her own – but different as well, a harsher edge to it that seemed more befitting of the Netherlands than melodies of France.

            “ _Je suis désolé_ , Éric,” Erika murmured in apology.  “I would ‘ave asked another if I knew anyone who could play even ‘alf so well.”

            Éric shook his head, his thin, wide mouth curving into a smile.  “Flattering does not change the fact that you, my dear songbird, are not singing.  You do not want to go out of practice.”

            “Of course not!  That is why you are ‘ere.”  Erika looked away from his dark brown eyes, the face that looked like it could have belonged to a conqueror of worlds.  Though they had split on relatively fair terms and remained on a talking basis, and even though they had both wound up in New York City and hovering near the opera, and even though Éric had let her board in his fine apartment before Erika had taken up the invitation to move into Xavier’s school, the air between them was still tense.  Both moved with a sort of wary delicateness when around each other.  Erika would have called him her friend now.  Since their breakup, Éric had been a perfect gentleman.

            And no one else in the school quite shared such a passion for music.

            Éric did not bother to hide his pleasure at being asked to play at accompanist.  Music was his life.  He performed in an orchestra and, when he was not busy practicing for performances, he was surely composing.  A genius.  No one could draw sounds from an instrument quite like he could.

            “Begin,” Erika prompted as she straightened her own copy of the music she intended to work through today.  The acoustics of the room they were in were far from ideal, and she hoped not to disturb any of the other residents unnecessarily, but Éric was right.  She could not afford to let her voice go out of practice.  There could still be opportunities to perform, but only if she did not give up.

            The piano rang out in brilliant, achingly beautiful sound, so sweet that it stole her breath away.  She swayed slightly to its rise and fall before taking a deep breath, and beginning to sing.  And as she sang, all her troubles melted away, and all that mattered was the music and her voice.

***

            Erika felt so much lighter once she and Éric had finished their shared moment of melodious passions, and felt even lighter when he left.  She had changed her clothes – a seemingly absurd thing to do, but given the fact she was going back to painting, she felt her reasons were fair.  She wore faded jeans worn soft from wear but still snug on her legs, a white tee shirt smeared with faded stains of paint.  Her dark hair was drawn back, twisted into a coil at the back of her head and held together by a few strategic paintbrushes.  A smear of russet paint stained one of her cheeks.  She hummed under her breath, the same songs she had been singing before.  It was, in all truth, a good day.

            A knock fell upon her door, and Erika paused.  She was not one to make friends, which meant there were a limited few people that a guest could be.  She could guess who it probably was, though.  With nervous, fluttering hands, she set her paints and brush aside and wiped her hands off on a damp cloth.  She straightened her shirt and tucked a few stray wisps of hair behind one ear.  She pulled the door open, already smiling politely; the smile only grew as she saw who it was.

            “Logan!”

            The feral arched a brow slightly, a corner of his mouth lifting as well.  “Songbird.  I swung by earlier, but you were singing.  You never said you were that good.”

            A little delighted laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it.  A small hand fluttered up, covering her smiling mouth in an old gesture.  “Now I’m sure I mentioned at least once I was professionally trained in opera.”

            His teeth flashed, just barely; white and straight and it would have been a handsome grin if he allowed it.  “Training doesn’t mean talent, darlin’.  Surely you know that?”

            Erika nodded, brushing back a few flyaway hairs.  She had known her share of dreaming girls who wanted to be singers or ballerinas and had lacked the talent to make such an elite group that the opera hosted.

            “You’ve got the talent,” Logan said, shifting a little closer to her.  “Bet everyone in your little singing school was jealous.”

            “Did you come by for something, or merely to flatter?” Erika asked, forcing her voice to not give even a hint of a quiver.  There was something about having the man so close to her, with that smirk on his lips and glint in his eye, compliments rolling off his tongue.  It made her dizzy with ideas that she couldn’t dare to host.

            “Was gonna update you on the week’s training schedule.  I assume you wanna know when to come down?” he asked with a sharp quirk of his brow.  “I prefer my students being on time.”

            Erika nodded quickly, thrown off balance by the sudden switch to professionalism.  “Of course.  Fill me in.”

            “Pretty straightforward week,” he said, weight shifting backwards again.  “Two in the afternoon Monday, Wednesday, Friday; quarter past three on Tuesday and Thursday.”

            “I’ll make sure to remember,” she replied with a small nod.

            There was a second of hesitation about him, his weight seeming to waver towards her and away from her.  Logan finally gave a sigh, seeming to say ‘fuck it’ to himself.  “Was also wonderin’ if you wanted to go out for the night.  Maybe not tonight, necessarily, but some night.”

            “That would depend,” she said slowly.

            There was a pause, both looking at each other with wary expressions.  Logan’s eyebrow lifted a little again.  “On what?”

            Erika shrugged, raising a hand to rub at the streak of paint on her cheek.  It flaked off slowly, stubbornly.  “Who is involved, where we would go, the night of the week since I ‘ave to call ‘ome.  Simple things.”

            “Well.  Who would you want to go with?”

            “Well I know you.  And I know Remy.  But you two are the only people I know.”

            Logan gave a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle.  “Don’t think you’d like the places Rem and I go regularly.”

            She smiled a little, regarding him a moment.  “Why do you say that?  Don’t you go to art museums and wine tasting?”

            Logan gave a soft laugh – the only type he ever seemed to have.  Still, it was laughter, and Erika was pleased to be the source of it.  She may not have known him well, but she knew the man enough to know that laughter was a rare thing to him.

            “No, darlin’, that we don’t.  Though I’m sure Remy wouldn’t mind going to you with somethin’ like that.”

            “You go to bars, I’m sure.”

            “And you’re not a bar type.”

            Erika smiled a little, offering up a shrug.  “It is not my first choice, but I do not mind compromising.”

            A little smile came to Logan’s face, just enough to show a whisper of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes.  “That a yes, then?”

            She nodded in return, smiling a bit herself.  “It is.”

            “Let me know what night works best for you, eh?”

            “Of course.  You ‘ave things to do, _oui_?”

            Logan rolled his eyes a bit, prizing a brief giggle from Erika.  “I always have somethin’ t’do,” he drawled.  “Makes it hard t’find time for pretty girls like you.  If you’ll excuse me?”

            Erika nodded, her smile a bit more genuine at the fact he had called her pretty.  Logan took a step back, inclining his head to her slightly before he made his way down the hall.  Erika watched after him a second, indulging herself with the repetition of his compliments before she stepped back into her room.

            Her humming as she painting turned sweeter, softer.  Romantic airs flitted in her mind, and in her imagination, she saw herself and Logan dancing and dancing and dancing . . .


	5. Proposition

            The mansion grounds were vast, with ample room for riots of flowers in the spring.  The gardens were, for the time, almost entirely withered under autumn’s thrall.  But there were a few persistent flowers, namely a scattering of chrysanthemums.  Though not her favorite flowers, they still held a fond spot in her heart.  After all, they were the flowers of her birth month.

            A sketch book lay in her lap, open to a fresh work.  She was dressed in dark jeans and a knit sweater of equally dark material.  Her hair was down, a thick fall of curls that spilled to her waist at the longest strands.  The soft wind that rustled the trees was not strong enough to cut through her clothing, though it stirred her hair and pushed it into her face at odd moments.  She was patient, though, and a quick gesture of her hand was enough to fix the matter.

            A sketch of the flowers decorated the page; gray lines and smudges from where her hand brushed over the paper.  She used her eraser with delicacy, banishing misplaced lines and smears.  A small box of high quality colored pencils sat beside her, ready to be used once she was finished touching the image up.

            In her artistic zen, she was unfocused to her surroundings, yet still attuned in a strange way.  She was unaware of the exact time, but knew she had been working for less than half an hour.  And so it was that she did not know exactly when company came to her, but she became aware of a presence, a person standing nearby.  She finished the last few touches of her eraser before finally tilting her head and lifting her eyes.

            She lifted her head fully with a quick gesture, startled to see that her visitor was not someone she knew well.  Rather, it was Storm – Ororo.  Her dark skin was offset by the fall of her white hair and the colors she wore.

            No wonder she was revered as a goddess in Africa.

            Erika smiled, gone soft and shy in the presence of one of the central X-Men.  Other than Logan, and a few words with the Professor now and then, she had not spoken to many of the mansion inhabitants, be they students of X-Men.  Storm smiled at her, though, the expression kind and open.  Erika felt a little of the tension ease from herself.

            “You’re Erika, yes?”  Storm’s voice was as kind as her smile.  It brought to the Parisienne’s mind molten gold and finest silk.

            Erika nodded, scooting a bit further down the bench to provide a space for the other woman.  Storm murmured her thanks before sitting with a sigh.  Her head tipped back, dark neck curving and white hair blowing back in the breeze.  Erika bit at her lip for a moment before bending back to her sketchbook and resuming her work.

            “The gardens are more colorful in the spring,” Storm said.  “Hundreds of flowers.  Maintenance takes quite some time, but at least there’s plenty of hands to help.”

            Erika turned her head, taking a moment to regard the woman.  “You sound familiar with the subject.  Do you garden?”

            Storm’s piercing blue eyes gleamed.  “I do.  Even in the winter.  I have a little greenhouse here.  There’s nothing overly impressive in it.”

            A genuine smile graced Erika’s features.  “It must be lovely.  My mother keeps a small vegetable garden, to grow ingredients for cooking.  She has flowers, too, but those she keeps inside to ‘ave year round.”

            “In Paris, yes?”

            Erika laughed, averting her gaze to the ground.  “ _Oui_.  Word must travel swift ‘ere.”

            “That, and it’s not every day we get a newcomer, especially not from out of the country.  This is a school, you remember.  The gossip mill is quite lively.”

            “I can imagine,” Erika muttered.  She could easily remember the gossip of the young girls in her schooling days.  Likely that had been even worse; the opera academy had been full to bursting with teenage girls, and it had always seemed to Erika that they could never be quiet.

            “If their word is to be believed,” Storm said slowly, “Logan has been spending quite a bit of time around you.”

            “No more than necessary,” Erika was quick to counter.  “He is making sure I settle in comfortably, and training me.”  She looked over to Storm, eyebrows faintly arched.  “I did not believe that was enough to draw attention.”

            Storm smiled, mirth glittering in her eyes.  “From anyone else, it would not be.  But this is Logan we’re speaking of.  He isn’t one to do these kinds of things.  He’s brought in other mutants, and rarely has he ever been so accommodating.”

            Erika dismissed her words with a shrug.  She fiddled with her pencil, a little shading here and a bit more there.  “I do not see why it matters.”

            “Perhaps it does, and perhaps it does not.  But it would be good for him, I think, if it did matter.  And good for you.”

            Erika gave a last stroke of her pencil before setting the sketchbook down beside her.  “Because it is good to ‘ave friends?”

            “Yes.  And I say that for the both of you.”  Storm stood up, dropping a hand to Erika’s shoulder with a kind squeeze.  “I have a class to teach in a few minutes, I’m afraid.  It was nice to meet you, Erika.”

            She smiled, surprising herself with just how genuine the expression was.  “The pleasure was all mine!”

            With a last squeeze at her shoulder, Storm left her.  Erika watched her go, admiring the regal strides.  The woman was a queen in her own right, and she moved with the grace of such.  The woman was effortless, beautiful.

            Erika envied her that.

            She shook her head.  A harder gust of wind blew, causing her to hunch her shoulders against it.  She had spent enough time outside; it was time to go in and find a means to occupy herself.  She picked up a small bag at her feet and packed away the art supplies she had brought out with her.  The bag was featherlight and easy to rest on her shoulder, small enough to not be in her way as she wound her way out of the garden.  She hurried up the gravel path, chilled now in the brisk wind.

            She bounded up the steps to the school, the small heels of her boots clattering on the stone.  She reached out to the door handle, but just as she was about to grasp it, the door swung inward with no warning.  Erika breathed out a startled sound, stepping back to let whoever it was out.

            “Y’know, darlin’,” Logan drawled as he stepped out, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think one o’ us was followin’ the other.”

            Erika flushed, though she hoped it could be excused to the wind.  “There is only so much space in this school.  And I ‘ardly saw you yesterday besides training.”

            He grinned a little, weight shifting so he could lean in the doorway.  Slumped shoulders, head tipped back faintly.  Relaxed and at ease, like a lion in repose.  “I’d offer to accompany you on a walk, but it seems you’re comin’ in.”  He held up an unlit cigar that he held with familiar ease in his hand.  “Charley doesn’t like me smokin’ inside.  Can’t imagine why.”

            Erika shook her head with a smile.  “Such a mystery.  Why do you do it, though?”

            Logan straightened, his eyebrows drawn down in the slightest sort of frown.  “Why not?  It can’t kill me.  The things that can, I can count on one hand.”

            The Parisienne nodded slowly.  “Not because it is an old ‘abit?”

            “Prob’ly plays a part.”  He shifted forward, and Erika was quick to step back.  He made a slight sound that likely passed as a ‘thank you’.  The step of his boots were unnaturally quiet across the porch, and he stopped at the railing.  “Smoked since I was a teenager,” he continued, voice muffled as he stuck the cigar in his teeth.  “Don’t think I could kick it if I tried.”

            Erika turned, letting the door shut for the moment.  “But you prefer to believe it is to flaunt to death.”

            He turned, just enough to look back at her over his shoulder.  He pulled the cigar out of his mouth as he turned around, leaning back against the railing as he sighed out a breath of smoke.  “Darlin’, I do plenty o’ things that would kill a normal man on a day to day basis.  This is one o’ the smallest things.”  He tapped off the tail of ash, his eyes dark as he regarded her.  “Got any plans tonight?”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “Would you wanna go out?  Get outta the house?”

            “I would certainly not mind that.  Were you and Remy planning to go out?”

            “Yeah.  Figured I could see if you wanted t’join in.”

            Erika smiled, brief but brilliant.  “I would love to go, if Remy doesn’t mind I join.  Where were you planning to go?”

            Logan shook his head with a faint chuckle.  “We don’t typically plan these things.  Just go where we’re in the mood to go.  But, given you’re comin’, we’ll prob’ly go for a club.”

            Erika frowned, running a curious look over Logan.  “Do you dance?”

            The look on his face was answer enough; the slightest lift of one side of his mouth, brows still furrowed.  “No.  I sit at the bar and drink.”

            “We can surely find something for all of us to enjoy.  You do not ‘ave to sit and be bored the whole night.”

            Something in his eyes glimmered, and Erika flushed as his eyes raked over her.  His mouth curved into a grin, one full of sharp teeth that made a shiver run through her body.  “I think I’ll have enough fun, darlin’.  We’ll be in the garage at eleven.”  Without another word, Logan turned away from her and jogged down the steps.  He struck off down the path around the school, cigar tucked back in his mouth, the tip of it smoldering in the wind.  Erika watched him go, a dazed feeling settling in her limbs.

            It wasn’t a date, she told herself as she went back inside and wandered up to her room, but it was certainly a start.


	6. Le Noir

            The dress was skin tight, black satin that hugged every curve.  Gossamer sleeves hugged her arms, seeming to shimmer in the light as she turned this way and that to regard her reflection.  The back of the dress plunged, the flimsy fabric of the sleeves forming a V shape to leave a vast expanse of skin bare.  The skirt stopped just above her knees, just loose enough to provide easy mobility.  The heels she wore, as black as the dress, would give her at least a decent boost in height; not enough to put her and Logan eye to eye, but she wouldn’t have to tilt her head quite so far.

            She gave a soft sigh as she flipped her hair back from her face, leaning a bit closer to the mirror as she slipped in a pair of black earrings, taking a moment to check once again that her makeup was even, the dark red of her lipstick flawless.  Finally, she fastened a choker around the base of her neck, loose enough that it hung own slightly.  The black pendant matched the rest of her attire, while the gossamer of the necklace itself complimented the sleeves of her dress.

            Erika breathed a last sigh as she straightened the dress a last time.  The straight line of the bodice sat low on her breasts, revealing the soft curve of them, and the fabric of the sleeves came up to frame her chest, an echo of the V at her back.  The look was perhaps a bit more elegant than most girls would wear to a club, but Erika was not often like most girls.

            Erika rushed out of her room, heart beating just a bit faster.  Not a date, she told herself over and over again; Logan was just being friendly and taking her along on a friend’s night of sorts.  Besides, Remy was coming; if anything, Erika was a third wheel.

            She had barely any time to spare as she pushed open the door that connected the garage and the house.  She could hear the two men chatting in idle fashion, and the slight sting of smoke tickled her nose.  Erika squared her shoulders and raised her chin before starting through the garage.

            She noticed Remy first, to her own surprise, though from her approach he stood out far more.  Dressed in dark, close fitting pants and a purple silk button down, he was both presentable and wickedly handsome.  He leaned back against a car far too stylish to be Scott’s, and must have been his own.  A cigarette was poised between his lips, his mouth shaped in a smile around it.

            The weight of Logan’s stare made her look to him quickly.  Though he was dressed in his normal fashion – jeans that fit perfectly, leather jacket, flash of flannel under it – he was somehow . . . more handsome.

            His mouth curved in a slight smile.  “Just on time.  Ready to go?”

            Erika grinned back.  “More ready than you, I’m sure.”

            Remy’s laugh rang out bright in the enclosed space.  “Ya got dat right, _chere_.  Logan mention he don’ like dancin’?”

            “It was mentioned.  ‘Opefully we can convince him to have some more fun for once.”

            Remy smiled, pulling his cigarette from his mouth and dropping it to grind it out against the concrete.  He pushed away from the car, fluid and graceful, already primed for dancing.  “We should get goin’, ‘fore he gets cold feet.”

            Logan snorted, elbowing the other man.  “I must be crazy not to, but you two are stuck with me.”

            “Ain’t we lucky?” Remy muttered.  He shot away from Logan, opening the driver’s door and ducking into the car just in time to miss another jab.  Erika pursed her lips firmly to keep from laughing aloud at the exaggerated look of annoyance on Logan’s face.

            “I’ll just get him when I get in,” Logan said as he opened the back door of the car.  “But, ladies first.”

            Erika smiled brightly.  “Very gentlemanly of you.  _Merci_.”  She brushed past him, perhaps purposefully close enough to just brush against his shoulder.  She climbed into the car, making sure to keep well enough away that her hair wasn’t accidentally shut in the door.  Humming softly under her breath, she buckled in and flipped her hair out from under the seat belt.

            Logan climbed into the passenger seat quickly, and as he had said he would, delivered a jab to Remy’s side as he pulled his door shut.  “All right, Gumbo, get us outta here.”

            “Ya gonna keep pokin’ me de whole way?” Remy asked as he started the car.  “Or ya finally bein’ a grown man?”

            “Fine.  No more poking.”  Logan fell quiet a second as they drove out.  “Where are we going?”

            “Jus’ trust me, _oui_?  I know a good place.”

***

            Remy’s pick didn’t disappoint.

            The music had a good beat, the lights weren’t flashing too bright or too often, and the floor wasn’t packed impossibly tight with writhing, grinding bodies.  Though not the clubs of Paris that Erika had frequented, it was a good substitute.

            She had danced with Remy for a while.  It had been fun, if not a bit claustrophobic.  Erika had the sense he was trying to keep other men from dancing with her, for Logan’s sake.  And while it was flattering that Logan would not want her to pay attention to other men, it had been a bit difficult to let go and enjoy herself truly.  He had wandered off to dance with other people, and Erika was able to dance with herself.

            She surrendered to the music, letting herself be lost in its pulse and sway.  There were few things that took her over as entirely as music did, and tonight proved no exception.  There was no one else around her; just her and the music twining around her.  It was a secluded intimacy, one only she was part of.

            A hand brushed against her side, and just like that, the spell dissolved.  She spun about, hair billowing out, lips parted just a bit in preparation to politely ask whoever it was to leave her be.

            The words died on her lips as soon as she spun, replaced instead by a blush.  Her movements became subdued, turning to a mere sway, without the complexities and movements of before.  She stepped closer to Logan – Logan, out on the dancefloor shuffling his weight just a little in time to the beat – and leaned up closer to his ear.

            “What are you doing out ‘ere?” she asked.  Her words were nearly a shout, straining to be heard over the music.

            The faintest scratch of his beard rasped against her cheek as Logan turned her head.  She bit at her lip to fight against the shudder that wanted to race through her.  “Figured you’d prefer attention from someone y’know than a stranger.  If I’m wrong, I can go.”

            “No!  Stay!”  Her hand curled around the front of his jacket, as if she could hold him there.  “Dance with me, at least a little!”

            A laugh vibrated through him, felt more than heard.  “Told you I don’t dance.”

            “Sway, then,” she urged, swaying herself.  She wrapped her arms up around his shoulders and pressed herself up against his chest, pulling him along with her movements.  “We do not ‘ave to dance the way they do.”

            He held still a moment, as if holding his breath that Erika would stop and release him.  She only held tighter, resting her head against his chest.  And then his arms were moving, his hands resting on her hips.  Erika dragged in a sharp breath, eyes closing, drinking in the feeling of him _touching_ her in such a way.  It was intimate, the closeness, the easiness with which they moved and existed in the moment.  His hands shifting and slipping against her silky fabric of her dress, gliding up her sides and back down, dangerously close to the hem of her skirt.  The way his head turned into her hair, the knowing that he was breathing her in over and over even as she did the same nuzzled in near his throat.  Her lungs full of leather and faded cigar smoke and cologne and something wild and inhuman, lungs full of _Logan_.  It was perfect, and it was endless, and it was over too soon.

            How much time had passed before he had drawn his hands back, taking hold of hers and peeling her back?  She couldn’t hope to say, but she hated the moment when it came.  Before the disappointment could be too crushing, he was leading her out of the press of people that was suddenly far too close.  He pulled her back towards the bar, and she could see his shoulders loosen as he took a seat there again.  She took the one beside him, smiling over at him.  It was a bit quieter at the bar, with no speakers particularly close by.

            “Want a drink?” Logan asked, his body turning towards her.  “My treat.”

            “Can the mixologist make a Rose?”

            He made a waiting gesture before turning the bartender.  Erika turned to look back out at the dancefloor.  It took only a few moments to find Remy, dancing with a girl and eyed by others.  He looked at home, lost in the music.

            She was pulled out of her reverie by Logan’s hand nudging her arm with a light touch.  She turned back and took the drink, delighted by the familiarity of its pink color.  Logan had a glass of amber liquid, whiskey she assumed.  Erika giggled a little as she tapped the brim of her glass against his before sipping from it.

            “I’m a lil surprised, I gotta admit,” Logan drawled.  “Didn’t take you for someone to drink much other’n wine.”

            Erika smiled, setting her drink down lightly on the bar.  “There is still plenty you do not know about me, Logan.  I do prefer wine, but a cocktail now and then is fun.  Besides, it is still French.”

            “That’s the important part, eh?”

            “I am a proud citizen of my country.  Aren’t you?”

            Logan snorted faintly as he knocked back some of his drink.  “Darlin’, of course I am.  Wait until Canada Day rolls around and you’ll see just how proud I am.”

            “Do you throw maple leaves at everyone or something?”

            “That was one time.  I cherish the memory o’ Cykes seethin’ over it.”

            Erika laughed, shaking her head.  “You are an interesting man, Logan.”

            He smiled a bit in return, skimming a gaze over her before meeting her eyes.  “Not half so much as you.”

***

            The night carried on in a cycle.  After a drink and a time to catch her breath, Erika threw herself back onto the dancefloor.  Logan sometimes followed, but more often than not, he hung back.  She could feel him watching her, and so she felt no qualms against showing off a bit.  In the moments he did dance with her, Erika felt as if she were living in some dream come true.

            It was well past midnight when Logan finally threw in the towel.  While Erika nursed her last drink of water, Logan slipped into the crowd.  He came back with Remy, who looked a little more disheveled than when Erika had last seen him; hair damp with sweat and looking rather run through, shirt hanging partway open, flushed and bright eyed.  With the tab paid, they sauntered out, the two men bantering in their typical fashion while Erika strode ahead of them.  A tiredness was settling into her, bone deep, but satisfying.

            It was only after they had piled into the car and started back home that she began to contemplate if any of the events meant that Logan felt anything for her that was close to what she did for him.


	7. Dissonance

            Erika wandered down into the lower levels of the school a half hour early for her training. She mostly wanted to get her stretches in early. But a little part of her just wanted to go down to watch the students training.

            She wasn’t disappointed in what she found. Logan was a good teacher, and his knowledge of combat was an intense mixture of various forms of martial arts, good ole cage fightin’, bar brawling, and an intense wildness that was singularly his own. It made sense that he teach the students. He had a dozen of them at the moment, older students. They were paired off, sparring it seemed, and Logan watched them with a mixture of pride and scrutiny.

            More enjoyably, Logan had stripped off his shirt. Even as Erika sat down to start stretching her legs, she couldn’t keep from looking at him, admiring him. His whole body was a display of muscle, his abs chiseled, veins and muscle cording his arms. Dark hair spread across his chest, tapering down his stomach to his navel. His stillness was preternatural, like a wild animal. Even the rise and fall of his breathing was hard to see.

            He grew a bit more restless the more Erika looked at him. She couldn’t say she was surprised; his feral nature surely made him sensitive to being watched. It was a force of will to look away.

            She could hardly believe that only last night they had danced together, drank together, for hours. It felt like some wild, impossible dream. How could someone like Logan be interested in a soft, quiet girl like herself, anyway? Besides, Logan and Jean were the couple. She was just his friend. And always would be.

            She stretched for the rest of Logan’s class, and by the time the kids started to filter out, she felt loose and limber. She was just about to stand and skip over to get her lesson done when the door swept open again. This time someone came in instead of leaving. When Erika looked over, she felt a sinking and guilty feeling in her stomach.

            Jean Grey swept in, her long hair falling freely around her with a bounce and sway at every step. She went straight up to Logan, beaming at him.

            “Hey there,” she all but purred. She had to lean up to accommodate the slight elevation of the ring, even with Logan leaning down towards her. Erika glanced over for a moment, and was surprised when Logan turned his head just a little before Jean could kiss him. Her lips pressed at the corner of his mouth, and Erika could feel the brief, unguarded burst of surprise from Jean. She clapped it down with haste, but now Erika was intrigued and didn’t dare look away.

            “Everything okay?” Jean asked, her tone turning a bit sharper as she rested back on her feet and stepped back.

            Logan shrugged, muscles playing under his skin. His eyebrows were turned down in a typical scowl, but his eyes looked a breath darker than what Erika had usually seen. There was a tension to him that made Erika feel skittish.

            “M’fine,” Logan grunted out, leaning against the ropes that sagged precariously under his weight.

            “Stressed?” Jean asked. “Lots of tests and stuff from our other classes? I could help you grade, you know. I can just check what the answers are with you.”

            “Later,” Logan replied. “Got another session in a few minutes.”

            Jean made a small sound. Erika narrowed her eyes a bit, sitting up straighter and lifting her chin. It took a bit of concentration; she was no powerful empath, but being in the same room, it wasn’t hard to reach out that preternatural awareness until it shrouded Jean again. But the telepath was under wraps.

            “Erika, I suppose?” she asked. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with her.”

            “I was asked to,” Logan replied, his voice just shy of a growl.

            “Well it’s a little excessive, Logan. Between your classes and spending time with her, you’re barely spending time with me. Last I checked, _we_ were dating.”

            “Y’know, you don’t complain like this when I spend time with the Cajun. What’s wrong with Erika? Or are you just jealous?”

            Logan staggered back a step, even though Jean hadn’t raised even a finger. Something in his face darkened and turned cold. “Watch it, Red,” Logan said – and this time his voice was a growl, deep and dark and Erika flinched from it, her powers snapping back into herself.

            “You drive me crazy, Logan,” Jean replied, as if Logan had hardly said anything. “I just think you should spend more time with me. There’s nothing wrong with wanting that, is there?”

            Logan shook his head, his eyes finally pulling away from her. “I don’t have to spend every second with you, Jeannie.”

            “Or maybe you just don’t want to,” she replied, hands bracing on her hips. “Because you’re such a loner, except you’re always spending time with other people according to everyone else. No one sees you alone.”

            “Because when I wanna be alone, I make sure I’m _alone_ ,” Logan snarled. “Now look, I’ve got shit t’do-”

            Jean threw her hands up in defeat. “Fine. _Fine_. I’ll see you tonight. That is, assuming you still want to go on the date we scheduled.” She didn’t give him the time to reply before turning and storming off and out of the room.

            “Jean!” Logan snapped. “For Christ’s sake.” He fell quiet, glaring at the door for a minute before turning his head. And leveling his glare right on Erika.

            Erika shrank into herself, drawing a leg up towards her chest, arms wrapping around herself. She couldn’t hold his gaze. It burned too harsh, too cold. She turned her head away, staring somewhere between the far wall and the floor.

            She heard him swing himself out of the little ring and jump down, heard the quiet falls of his bare feet on the mat. Heard him sigh as he sat down in front of her. She didn’t dare turn her head just yet, not wanting to see any more of his anger.

            “Sorry y’had t’see that,” Logan rumbled. “Wasn’t very pretty.”

            “ _Non_ ,” Erika replied softly. She glanced over to him. The line of his shoulders had softened into a slump, and his head was turned down towards the ground. Erika turned her face towards him again, propping her chin on her knee. “But love is not always pretty.”

            Logan glanced up at her. Erika was relieved to see his eyes were not so dark now. “Do your parents ever get like that?”

            Erika worried at her lip, diverting her gaze slowly. “No. But I think my parents are exceptionally ‘appy together.”

            “I’m pretty sure most happy, healthy couples don’t get at it the way we do,” Logan said. He shook his head a bit, breathing out a loud sigh. “Guess this is what I get for goin’ steady. Or for goin’ for a girl who had a man already.”

            “You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Erika countered. Her brow drew down faintly. “You were right. You don’t ‘ave to spend every second with your partner. You’re allowed to ‘ave other friends. Even other friends of the same sex.”

            Logan grimaced slightly. “Sorry.”

            “What Jean says is not your fault. Clearly she is not a fan of me.” Erika offered a smile, one she hoped looked more sincere than it felt.

            Logan’s mouth quirked up a bit at one corner. “Her loss. You’re a sweet girl.”

            Erika ducked her head, shoulders lifting as she tried to shrink from the compliment before she blushed too hard. “You don’t ‘ave to do this for me. I could be taught by someone else. I don’t want to be a problem.”

            “You’re not,” Logan replied fast. Maybe too fast. Erika bit at her lip, eyes closing slowly. “I like spending time with you,” he pressed on. “Jean can get over it. And if she doesn’t like it, she can walk.” Logan trailed off before he sighed again. “You wanna get to trainin’?”

            “That depends,” she whispered. “Are you up for it?”

            “Why wouldn’t I be?”

            Erika shifted her eyes up to look at him from beneath her eyebrows. “I am an empath, Logan. I may not be up to Remy’s standards, but I have enough power to know what you’re feeling. You’re quite upset. If you need to take the afternoon and relax before your date, I understand. In fact, I would encourage it.”

            Logan sighed before he stood up. He held a hand out to Erika, and when she put her smaller hand in his, he pulled her easily to her feet. He cut his hand from hers quickly, and Erika had to fight down a disappointed sound. “Thanks,” he huffed out.

            “Oh, don’t thank me,” Erika laughed faintly. “Friends look out for each other, _oui_?”

            He nodded once, graven and silent as he turned away and left her. Erika watched after him for a moment, letting her arms wrap around herself as he left. Alone in the cold lower levels, she wondered if she had ever felt so alone.

***

            The evening felt heavy on Logan’s shoulders. He felt guilty in different ways. In one sense, he felt guilty that Jean felt any jealousy towards Erika. After all, he was just playing as her mentor; she was his responsibility since he was the one to bring her in. She was a friend, and that was it. So what if he wanted to make her feel at home?

            On the other hand, and a heavier guilt, was the fact that Erika had heard his spat with Jean. Logan was no empath, but emotions altered the scents of people, and his nose had told him Erika was more bothered by the display than she had let on. And he had abandoned her afterward, as if doing so could prove something to the woman beside him. As if it could shake off the dissonance that had been growing between them lately.

            The bar was crowded and loud, driving Logan steadily towards a bitch of a headache. The scents of alcohol and smoke, though familiar, were especially cloying. Jean was prattling on about some story from one of her classes. She was bright and animated and every man and a good few women were looking at her. And she knew it; she thrived under their attention, tossed her hair and tilted her head.

            She laughed at her own story, or joke, or whatever it was anymore. Logan smiled a little and laughed on cue before tossing the last of his whiskey back.

            He supposed Jean had always been this way. She had seemed quiet and reposed on their first meeting, but within days, she had started to preen whenever either he or Scott looked her way. She had seemed to thrive under their warring attentions. Logan held himself in check as much as he knew how, but he was always dangerously impulsive. She’d always said she would choose Scott over him. He’d kissed her once or twice, hating himself for it even in the moment but so damned desperate for her. He’d seen her cry and cling to Scott after he sustained awful injuries from missions, he’d seen them fight and make up and fight again. He’d felt a burst of something in his chest when she said she’d made her decision and kissed him, hard and hungry and like she meant it.

            Scott hadn’t seemed to give up on her, and if Logan was honest with himself, he didn’t give that idea up either. Jean had gravitated back to Scott so many times that Logan just didn’t see what made this time different. It was the longest, sure, but they’d been fighting so much, so damn much. Logan felt he couldn’t do a damn thing right for her anymore.

            He remembered one time, when he pulled into the kitchen for breakfast after his daily morning run, seeing Scott at the counter with a beer in hand. Scott hardly seemed to drink at normal hours, let alone before lunch. He’d had a night’s shadowy scruff on his cheeks and Logan would have bet all his Molson that behind his shades, purple shadows hung under his eyes.

            “I can’t do a thing she wants anymore,” he had said that morning when Logan asked, half joking and half serious, what the hell was wrong with him. “All we do is fight. I don’t know if we can keep this up.”

            He felt a push at his mind, recognizing Jean’s psychic caress, but he knew better than to think she was just trying to coax his attention. She wanted to know what he was thinking. Young and impulsive and a little foolish. Xavier had told Logan, with no small amount of admiration, that Logan’s mind was one of the finest naturally fortified minds he had ever seen. _A weaker telepath could lose himself in that mind of yours, Logan_.

            “Stop it,” Logan grunted, his finger ghosting around the rim of his glass.

            “You’ve gone quiet,” Jean replied. Petulant. Needy. Logan felt his shoulders tense in frustration.

            “Was thinkin’.” He raised his glass as the bartender glanced over, and in seconds he had a fresh drink to nurse. “Still allowed to, aren’t I?”

            Jean sighed loudly. “Well sorry for wanting to know what you were thinking.”

            “You can ask that question, like a normal person. Maybe then I’d tell you.”

            “You should have told me you’d be in a mood all night,” Jean said. When Logan glanced over, he wasn’t surprised to see her frowning. “We never have fun when you are.”

            “I’m sorry,” Logan snarked, his lip curling back faintly from his teeth. “Maybe if you hadn’t been a bitch earlier today I wouldn’t be in a _mood_.”

            Jean threw a hand in the air and shook her head. “You’re still hung up on that? Really? I apologized before we left!”

            Logan shook his head and threw his drink back. He pulled out his wallet, throwing down the money for the tab they’d built up. “I’m done for the night, Jean. Let’s just go.”

            “I can’t believe you sometimes,” Jean grumbled as she stood up. “I love you, but you make is hard.”

            Logan shook his head, an incredulous laugh escaping him. “Y’know, I can’t believe you, either. You get jealous if I even _look_ at a girl. You think I don’t notice the little glances at all the other guys here? The way you like that they’re watching you? The way you led me on, the way you’re leading Scott on now?” He huffed out a faint laugh before turning away from her. “Should’ve known better. Would’ve saved a lot o’ trouble.”

            Jean grabbed onto his arm, her grip tighter and stronger than anyone would have expected from such a pretty face. “What’s that supposed to mean, Logan?”

            He jerked his arm free. “Just get in the damn car, Jean,” he growled.

            “Logan-!”

            His hands curled into fists, and he could practically feel the wild flashing in his eyes. It never failed to shut someone up mid argument, and Jean was no exception. She closed her mouth, red lips drawing into a line. She bowed her head a little as she ducked past him and slipped out into the dark. Logan felt a hot ball of angry guilt settle in the pit of his stomach, souring the whiskey there. He fought against the miserable feeling as he followed her out and into the car.

            They were silent the whole drive home.

***

            “Is this it, then?”

            Logan looked up at Jean, the keys jangling a last time in his palm. Under the stark lights of the garage, the tears suspended in her eyes were all too evident. The guilt rushed back through him. He began to see, clearly, just what she had given up to be with him. A man who loved her unconditionally, and still did; a marriage that surely would have happened; a chance to have kids, to have just a little sliver of normalcy in the bizarre life of an X-Man. And he was throwing away her sacrifice like it meant nothing.

            But he hadn’t asked her to give everything up for him. Hell, he told her not to, that he wasn’t worth it. But she’d done it anyway.

            “We aren’t working, Jean,” he finally said. “You know that. I know that. Everyone knows that.”

            “We can work, though,” she protested, her voice almost shaking. “We were-”

            “But we stopped working. I don’t know why, but we did.”

            “Logan, please-”

            “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve been happier with me than with Scott.”

            Jean bit her lip. She sniffled faintly, eyes blinking in a desperate bid to banish the tears. One fell, tracking silver across her cheek. Her eyes finally dropped away and she turned from him.

            “He still loves you, Jean,” Logan said softly. “Might take some time t’patch up, but you can.”

            She made a faint sound in the back of her throat. Logan couldn’t tell if it was agreement or just a choked back sob.

            “I should go,” she whispered.

            “I’m sorry.”

            Jean nodded, looking at him a last time, cheeks blotched and eyes red. Heartbroken, but still beautiful. But she smiled somehow. “I am, too.”

            She was gone before Logan knew it, leaving him in the too bright room surrounded by the scents of motor oil and exhaust, the ticking of the cooling engine too loud in the stillness.

            “It’s better this way,” he told himself. “It’s better.”

            But that didn’t stop the low aching in his chest.


	8. Hope

            The gossip mill was raging.

            It started with one of the girls spotting Jean and Scott standing close together – too close – and talking in low voices. Both of them had a sad sort of happiness hanging around them. Naturally, talk of them talking spread like wildfire, and was quickly followed by speculations. Were they trying to reconcile their nasty break up when Jean and thrown in the towel and tucked herself under Logan’s arm? Or was the hot and hard fling over, and true love won out in the end?

            Logan couldn’t stand the sound of it, grating on nerves that hadn’t healed overnight and wouldn’t for days.

            Erika couldn’t let herself believe it for even a second for fear of letting her heart hope too much.

            The gossip picked up traction in the afternoon.

            Jean and Scott had been spotted leaving together to grab a bite for lunch. They had climbed in one of Scott’s cars that he spent his spare time working on. Logan was seen eating with Laura and Jubilee, him leaning back in a chair precariously balanced on only two legs and his feet on the table against Xavier’s long abandoned admonitions. Laura and Jubilee chattered – more Jubilee went on and on with usual exuberance while Laura listened and occasionally put a word in – while Logan just listened. Some dared to say that he looked a little lonely in that moment, at least until Remy sidled in next to him. But even then, he still seemed off.

            Of course, none of the students speculated whenever they knew Logan was in the room with them, or beside them. And no one dared ask him about him and Jean. While the students admired the Wolverine, they knew of his temper just as well and didn’t dare to turn themselves under its attention. They gave Jean and Scott the same courtesies.

            Erika didn’t want to listen to it, and so she holed herself up in her room for most of the day. She lay on her bed, tracing the damask patterns on the duvet with a finger, waiting for her Skype call to connect her across the difference of hours between her and her parents. Normally she would call home a few times a month, simply to run updates on her life to her parents. She considered, often, returning home; she missed Paris, and her parents, and the opera, and her language. But on that day, with the fear that she had crashed in and ruined Logan and Jean’s happiness, she missed home more than she ever had since she had first left.

            The call connected; Erika sat up hastily, her lip already starting to quiver with the sudden and horrible urge to start crying. She pushed through it, breaking out her finest prima donna smile for her parents.

            “ _Bonjour, ma chéri_!” her father said; like Erika, he was grinning, straight white teeth bright against his sun tanned complexion. He had one arm around his wife’s shoulders. As always, Erika admired the way they offset one another. Charles Deforest, tall, broad shouldered, tan, with light brown eyes and dark hair. Marie, though also tall, was far more slight, with a rich fall of blonde curls, pale complexion, blue-gray eyes. Compliments of one another. Beautiful together. Happy.

            “Erika?” her mother asked, worry sharp in her tone. “What’s wrong? You’re crying.”

            Erika raised a hand and lighted it on her cheek. She swiped at the dampness there, then under her eyes even as more tears tracked down. “I’m sorry,” she replied, finding herself lapsing into French without a thought. “Nothing’s _wrong_ ; at least, not with me.”

            “Then what is it, dear?” her mother asked.

            “It’s . . . it’s a friend of mine,” Erika replied. She folded her hands tight in her lap, a hard and shaking grip. “He and his girlfriend seemed to have broken up. He’s upset, I think, though he’s acting like he isn’t. And . . .”

            “You think it happened because of your friendship?” her father asked.

            Erika nodded. She could still hear the way Jean had spoken of her, the annoyance in her tone. They had fought then, and surely fought later. It didn’t matter if they had fought before then. Erika couldn’t be convinced that she had had no part in the affair.

            “I think she might have thought something would happen between us. And I think they broke up because of that.” Erika shrugged a bit, her expression wilted into a sorrowing frown. “This isn’t what I wanted. I told him I wasn’t worth fighting with her over.”

            “Erika,” her mother murmured. “As upsetting as this is, it is not your fault. Couples split on their own, for various reasons. All you can do is be there for your friend.”

            “What’s his name anyway?” her father piped in.

            Erika rolled her eyes as her mother elbowed him. “Logan,” she supplied, fighting against the quirk of her lips. Of course her father would want to know, even if nothing was bound to come of it. “He’s a good man. A little gruff on the edges, but there’s a good heart in him.”

            “Well, maybe his old girl wasn’t very smart,” her father said. This time Erika couldn’t quite help herself from laughing, which made her father smile brightly. “Is he handsome, too?”

            “I speak with an artist’s perspective,” Erika hummed in lilting French. “He’s quite the vision. Very graceful. Painting him would be a grand challenge; there’s something in his presence that I don’t think can be shown.”

            It was likely a worthless ploy to throw off her parents’ suspicion that she may indeed have feelings for him. Her words were double edged, one side the truth of what she said, and the other the implied answer that Logan was so handsome in that harsh and rugged way. She didn’t want their sympathetic hopes that it would turn out the way her heart yearned. Erika wasn’t stupid; the chances of someone like Logan – all his rough edges and callous words – would never go for someone like her – delicate and romantic and soft. She was breakable, and he was invincible.

            “How’s work?” her mother asked. Erika brightened a little under a swell of relief at the change in subject.

            “The Metropolitan Opera has a lovely schedule coming up next month,” Erika said, smiling genuinely now. “They’re holding a production of _Norma_. I’m scheduled to audition next week. And they’ll be performing _Requiem_ , _The Magic Flute_ , and _Tosca_. And _Carmen_.”

            There was a lull of silence. Erika glanced at the image of herself, noting the bitter longing in her expression. She stuck out her tongue faintly, which made her parents laugh, though there was a touch of tension in the sound.

            _Carmen_ was an opera of terrible importance to Erika. It had been the first production she had seen, and she had fallen in love with the story from the start. After graduating the top of her class in the opera’s school, and taking on the role of prima donna, she had slowly risen towards triumphs on the stage. _Carmen_ had been her first ever triumph at only twenty-one.

            Five years since her initial rise to fame, she had lost much of her progress. She had needed to take personal time off from the pressure of opera fame and to recover from the accident in her earliest years of adulthood, as well as from her ill-fated romance with Éric **.** During her brief stay with her grandparents in New Orleans, she had begun searching for openings in operas across America. She had been afraid to go home, to return to the place where all the bad memories lurked, even though she missed Paris and her parents so much that her heart ached.

            Finding the opening in the Metropolitan Opera in New York City had been a stroke of luck. It was her uncle’s urging that had driven her to uproot herself and go somewhere new all on her own. She had auditioned to hold a place as an understudy for a production of _The Merry Widow_ , and had managed to secure it – barely. Her hold seemed tenuous to herself, and she looked every month for an opportunity to establish a better footing. Her hopes had not come to fruition in October, but November carried promise.

            Maybe, possibly, in more ways than one. With Jean and Logan separated, perhaps there was a chance that something could arise between herself and the surly feral.

            At the very least, she could hope. And that was better than anything she had felt so far.

            “I have faith in you,” Marie spoke up. “Put your best foot forward. Audition for _Carmen_ with the Habanera. You were always wonderful with it.”

            “I think I will,” Erika agreed with a nod. Critics had always loved her performance of the Habanera; how could she possibly be turned away when her finest song was hers to conquer once again?

            Erika smiled, beamed even. “Thank you. I’m feeling better already, really. About everything.”

            “That’s wonderful to hear,” her father said with a brilliant grin of his own. An American grin, Erika thought to herself; perfectly straight and stark white against the tan complexion of his skin. “Let us know how it all turns out, of course.”

            “You’ll both be the first to hear,” Erika promised. “I imagine you both have things to do, though; I shouldn’t keep you much longer.”

            “Unfortunately,” her father sighed. “I have a new commission from a publishing company, wanting illustrations for a book.”

            “And I have a research meeting early tomorrow,” Marie said. “I have to be up at three in the morning if I want to make it into the hospital early.”

            “And I have my usual routine to go through,” Erika finished, smiling fondly at the image of her parents. “You should go to bed, Mom; it sounds like you have a long day tomorrow.”

            “It could be worse,” she replied. “Goodnight, dear one.”

            “ _Bonne nuit, Maman, Papa_.” Erika blew a quick kiss to each of her parents, and they did the same to her. It was only a second longer before their call was hung up, and Erika’s brief tie to her home city was severed. As always, a heavy weight of homesickness settled in her chest, making her hitch out a sigh. She missed Paris, and her parents, and their beautiful house. She missed the opera house, the friends she had trained, danced, and sung alongside, all the girls that had supported each other, who she had gone out to clubs with. She missed wandering in the city, being stopped by tourists year round who asked for directions and helping to set them on their way. She missed jaunts out to the countryside, summer trips to the beaches to dabble in the Mediterranean.

            And yet this place was, slowly, becoming home. Erika knew if she left that she would miss the school, miss the people she was slowly befriending. She would miss Logan. And there would be no hope in Paris of meeting anyone like him, anyone who stirred her heart the way he did.


	9. Innocence

            Another long day of training was freshly under her belt.  Still catching her breath, Erika leaned easily against the wall, reveling in the cooler touch of it against her warmed skin.  One tug at a time, she coaxed her hair out of a tight ponytail.  She couldn’t quite keep from watching Logan clean up after their session, putting away punching bags and mats mostly.  He’d worked up a decent sweat (they both had) which made his skin shine under the bright lights.  The natural, light olive of his complexion seemed heightened, even letting the golden undertone of his skin show through.  His thick, dark hair was a sharp contrast; it, too, gleamed, and Erika wondered just how soft it would be running between her fingers . . .

            “Erika, are you even listenin’ right now?”

            “No,” Erika replied, her tone almost dreamy despite the evident humor in Logan’s voice.  “I’m afraid I’m a bit distracted at the moment.”

            Logan shot her a look, one corner of his mouth tipped up.  Faint lines feathered around the outer corners of his eyes.  He looked handsome like that; a little bit disheveled, a little bit happy.  Erika could look at him forever like that.

            Logan pushed the last mat into the closet before shutting it with a hard push of his shoulder.  Finished, he ambled over to Erika, every step slow and easy.  Erika straightened a bit, folding her arms behind herself.  He seemed . . . different, today.  It had been close to a week since his sudden split with Jean.  He had settled into himself again, but the self that was presented was someone different from the man she had been coming to know.

            “Ya know,” Logan drawled, running his eyes along Erika’s form, “some guys would think y’mean somethin’ with the way you’re starin’.”

            Erika shifted, raising her chin slightly.  A delicate smile curled her mouth as Logan drew to a halt before her.  “And what do you think, Logan?  Do I mean something?”

            He breathed out a sound that could have passed for a laugh.  His eyes traveled her again, slower, admiring every spilling curve.  Erika felt her skin heat under the weight of his gaze.  “I don’t think.  I know.”  He moved closer, forcing Erika to tip her head back to maintain eye contact.  The smug, self-assured smirk he wore should have angered her, she knew it, but it only made butterflies flutter around in her stomach.  “You pay a bit too much attention to me when you don’t need to.  But I’m not good for you, Erika.  You should know that by know.”

            “If you’re insisting I’m too delicate-”

            “No,” he cut in, “not delicate.  Innocent.  You had a rough go with Éric, sure, and you got hurt in more ways than one.  But Éric isn’t like me.”  His eyes hardened a little, and that smirk had turned into something far more grim.  “He’s a gentleman, according t’you at least.  I’m not.  I’m not gonna take you out to five stars or parties in a suit and tie.  I don’t go to the opera or the ballet or anywhere that isn’t a bar and occasional club.  I’m not like him.  I’m not like you.”

            Erika’s lips parted, a soft shape of dismay.  “Logan-”

            He stepped back, shaking his head.  “Look at yourself.  Then look at me.  You’re all . . . perfect.  Someone like me doesn’t get t’have that.  I’ve tried, and it never, ever, ends well.  People get hurt, or worse.  I’m not gonna do that again.  I’m not gonna wreck you.”

            A rush of heat flooded up to Erika’s cheeks.  She turned her head away in a sharp gesture, mouth pressing shut again.  “You make it sound like I’d just fall apart if you so much as _touched_ me.  I wouldn’t.”

            “No.  It’d just happen later.”

            Erika shook her head, hard.  “You don’t know that.”

            “I know I’m not gonna risk it.  I’m not gonna rip out your innocence like that.”

            She scoffed, turning her head to look at him again.  “It’s more than that.”  She had to press the words out past her throat that was squeezing just too tight.  “You don’t want to try because you don’t want it to go wrong.”

            Logan blinked a few times, masking the slight widening of his eyes.  Erika felt a flutter of triumph.

            “So you do care about me, then.”  Erika raked a rough glance up and down him.  “Odd way of showing it, Logan.  You could ‘ave fooled me.”

            His brow lowered, his face falling into a familiar scowl.  “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

            “Hurt me?  Logan!  _This_ hurts!  Don’t be a fool!”

            “It hurts less.”

            “Maybe for you!  You won’t even try!  You’re being a coward!”

            Erika realized immediately that those were bad words to choose.  Logan’s eyes snapped to her, dark with storming anger.  Erika shifted imperceptibly, unconsciously, into a defensive stance.  She could already imagine his hand swinging up and at her, how the slap of his palm would clap and sting, worse than Éric **’s ever could.**

            Logan moved closer, his lips peeled back faintly from gritted teeth. He _loomed_ over her, more than he usually seemed to.  Erika trembled, but held her ground, looking up at his face through her eyelashes.  She could have hit him, little good it would do, but she felt frozen in place.  Surely he would lash out and-

            Logan lowered his head, a low growl spilling out of him.  “Erika . . .”  His shoulders slumped, one hand lifting faintly.  Erika’s eyes jerked towards it, her face turning towards his palm.  But his fingers were curled halfway to a fist, hand limp.

            A tiny sound escaped her, the barest sort of confusion.  Logan flinched from it, head hung in _shame_ she realized.  Shame of her own bloomed in her chest.  How could she ever think he would do anything like that when he’d only ever been kind?

            _Because_ _Éric was always kind until he hit you._

_But he's not like him._

            “I’m sorry,” Logan whispered.  “I’m . . . ah,   _fuck_.”

            Erika shook her head, forcing her posture to relax back into something normal.  She raised a hand halfway to his chest, shrank back.  Pressed forward.  Lighted her fingertips against the rise and fall and felt the slightest pause and the sigh that followed.  Flattened her palm finally.  She could feel his heart beating faintly under her touch.

            “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered.

            Logan sighed audibly.  The sound wasn’t weary, just . . . longing.   He bent towards her faintly, one hand curling gently around the back of her neck.  Erika braced her other hand on his waist lightly, keeping her gaze lowered, too ashamed to meet his eyes.

            “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispered.  “You’ve been hurt enough.”

            “You’re one to talk,” Erika replied, a hiccupping laugh escaping her.  “You’re hurting even now.”

            “Mmm.  Breakups are a bitch.”

            Another weak laugh escaped her.  Erika drooped forward.  A light press from Logan’s hands was more than enough for her to rest her forehead against his chest.  He smelled of sweat underscored by aftershave.  Logan’s fingers eased into the curls at the nape of her neck, massaging lightly and drawing out a low sound from her throat.  It was all too comfortable to stand just that way, feeling the anger of their brief squabble dissipating.

            “It wouldn’t ‘ave to ‘urt,” she mumbled.

            She felt more than heard Logan’s sigh.  His other arm moved around her, his body curling inward ever so slightly to wrap her up more thoroughly in his presence.  “Maybe.  Maybe.”


	10. Who's It Gonna Be?

            Erika stalked down to the kitchen, shoulders tight and head bent.  Her heeled boots thundered against the hardwood floors.  Those that she passed skirted around her, shying from the angry cloud that hung tight around her.  Erika barely noticed them, or anything hardly.  She wanted – she _needed_ –

            The kitchen went silent as she stepped in.  She went straight to the coffee machine, glad to see there was some relatively fresh.  She poured a mug out, eyes raking over the creamers until she found the French vanilla.  In went a healthy amount, and she grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer, promptly slamming it shut after.  The spoon rattled loud against the ceramic cup, and when she dropped it in the sink to clean after, the clatter was cacophonous.  She set the cup aside so it could cool, if only a bit, before she drowned herself in it.

            She yanked the fridge door open instead, rummaging inside almost viciously.  She wrenched out a loaf of bread and the jam.  She set them on the counter with exaggerated delicacy, starting to grumble under her breath in her native tongue.

            Behind her at the island counter, Remy and Storm exchanged wary glances.  Bobby Drake slunk his way to the door as quietly as he could, wanting to draw well out of range from any potential angry fire.  Jubilee’s excited chatter with Laura had fallen to dead silence.

            Erika noticed these things, and while they stirred guilt in her, they also made her even angrier.  “You don’t all ‘ave to be afraid,” she snapped out.  “I’ll be gone in a moment.”

            The silence persisted a moment.  Erika popped a couple pieces of bread in the toaster, and picked up her mug of coffee to sip the hot drink.  Behind her, Remy cleared his throat.  She turned just enough to glower at him.

            “ _Chere_ ,” Remy said slowly, “if I migh’ ask . . . what’s de matter?”

            Erika let out a sharp breath through her nose.  She couldn’t bear to even say it, she was so angry and upset.  She turned away fast, glaring at the toaster in silence.

            “You can share your troubles with us,” Storm added.  “We’re all friends here, Erika, and we’re all here to help each other if needed.”

            “There is nothing anyone can do about it,” Erika muttered into her cup.  And it was true.  Well, mostly; she supposed a telepath could fix the problem, but that was cheating, and Erika would not cheat her way through the opera.

            The toaster went off, and Erika hastily grabbed the slices.  As she finished preparing her breakfast, she became aware of another presence looming in the room.  Her empathy, already hanging open, easily identified the presence as belonging to Logan.  He was entirely closed off to any empathic reading.

            Erika closed her eyes, brow furrowing in concentration as she pulled the heady swirl of negative emotions pouring out of her back in.  It was likely too little too late, but at least it wouldn’t affect anyone further.  She didn’t want a fight, not when she was this upset.

            “The hell’s wrong here?” Logan rumbled out.  He practically stalked through the space to grab whatever he wanted.  Erika forced herself not to turn around and watch him.

            “Erika is upset,” Storm supplied.  “But she won’t tell us what’s bothering her.”

            Logan grunted slightly.  “Could tell that when I was walkin’ down the hall.”

            Erika sighed, finally shooting a glare towards him.  He seemed to glance over at about the same time.  His expression was unreadable.  Had Erika not been so frustrated, she surely would have felt uncomfortable.  As it was, her own troubles were greater than Logan’s moodiness.  She turned away, thoroughly unimpressed.

            Logan arched a brow when she turned away.  “Why not talk about it at least?  Clearly it’s botherin’ you a lot.”

            “It is my own problem, and mine alone,” Erika shot back.  “And I do not ‘ave to explain why I am upset to anyone if I do not wish.”

            “No,” Storm agreed, “you certainly don’t, and we don’t mean to pry any.  But we’re your friends, Erika.  We’re here to listen if you want to speak.”

            Erika tore off a piece of her toast, starting to nibble at it.  Storm was right; she was friendly with all three of them, certainly, and they were all nice.  Well, Logan wasn’t always nice, but he admitted he did care about her, and even if he seemed to be in a mood, he was at least showing an interest in how she felt.  But did she want to be a burden at all?  And surely they would think she was being dramatic?

            “It’s the opera,” she muttered finally.  “Just opera drama.”

            “Sounds like more den plain drama ta me,” Remy drawled, his accent bringing a laziness to his voice.  “T’ings not goin’ well?”

            Erika only shook her head as she finally turned to face him.  The answer to that question, after all, was obvious.  “I only ‘ave one role for the month.  And the singer for _Carmen_ -” She cut herself off on an insulted, undignified sound.  That woman did not deserve to have the role.  Perhaps when she was younger Erika would not take her hold of the position as an insult, but she was forty-seven, and that was far too old!  She tilted her chin up, eyes cold but haughty.  “I could do a far better performance than ‘er.  But they won’t give me any chance!”

            Remy winced sympathetically.  “ _Désolé_ , _ma chere_ ; dat’s most unfortunate.”

            “I ‘ave been trying to ‘ave a main role for months now at the Met,” Erika replied, hands wrapped around her warm mug.  “As if my credentials do not speak for themselves.  I was top of my class; I was a _star_.  And now I ‘ave to scrounge like a freshly graduated singer!”

            “You said you had a role,” Logan cut in, something close to exasperation in his voice.  “So why are you so upset?  One’s better’n nothin’.”

            “And who is the understudy?” Storm added.  “Surely the opera has one for every role.”

            Erika lowered her head, scowling to herself.  “I am ze alternate,” she said, her voice thickened faintly.  “But zat does not mean I will ‘ave a chance to perform.”

            “Ah, but it is still possible,” Remy said, pulling out one of his familiar and dazzling grins.  “Maybe if ya do well enough in de role ya have, dey’ll see dey made a mistake in choosin’ whoever the other lady is.”

            “Elizabeth White,” Erika all but growled out.  Her posture deflated slowly.  “A favorite of the opera, I’m afraid.  No, they would not replace ‘er, especially not with someone new.  The Queen of the Night will ‘ave to be enough.”

            “Have some faith,” Storm urged.  “Perhaps something will happen that will let you perform the role.  And perhaps Xavier would let us come to the opera to see you in . . . what opera is it you’ll be in?”

            “ _The Magic Flute_ , but I can promise it will not be my best,” Erika said with a shake of her head.  “German is a bit difficult for me to pronounce.”

            “Now, _chere_ ,” Remy said, his voice gone firm and assertive, “you’ll do as beautiful as always, and ya know dat.  Don’ think ya got not beautiful singin’ in ya.”

            She didn’t want to admit how much the compliment made her feet better, even as it brought a smile to her face.  “You’re much too kind, Remy; _merci_.”

            Remy beamed back at her as he stood.  “Now, much as I’d love ta stay and keep de lovely lady smilin’, I got class ta teach.”  Remy pulled a face of distaste.  “Remind me why I wanted a mornin’ class again?”

            “You didn’t have a choice as I remember,” Storm laughed softly.  “It’s the only section of art history Xavier put in this semester.”

            “And I shouldn’ta volunteered fo’ it.”  Remy sighed a bit overdramatically as he took his and Storm’s dishes to the sink to rinse them off quickly.

            “I’ll put them in the dishwasher for you,” Erika said with a slight smile.  “You should be going, _non_?”

            “ _Merci, chéri_!”  Remy gave her a quick, dazzling grin and a friendly touch on her arm.  He swung around the kitchen, pushing a loose fist against Logan’s shoulder.  “Maybe he’ll be a gentleman and give ya a hand.”  Erika just managed to catch the pointed look he gave the feral before moving past him to leave the kitchen in a ripple of coattails.

            “I wouldn’t count on it,” Storm said, a dry note staining her voice.  “Logan isn’t particularly known for being neat.”

            “Hey,” Logan growled at her, “I can clean dishes.”

            Storm’s blue eyes twinkled with bemusement.  “Of course.  I hate to leave you two with more dishes, but I have a class as well.”

            “It’s no trouble,” Erika replied with a smile.  “Thank you, for the kind words.  I really do feel better about it all now.”

            “We’re all friends here,” Storm said with a smile, “we look out for each other.  Everything will turn out well in the end, I’m sure.”

            Once she had left, quiet fell between Erika and Logan.  Logan’s mood seemed to had mellowed, for which Erika was glad.  She finished her breakfast with little rush.  She had meant it, when she said she felt better, but that didn’t change the fact that she was still disappointed.

            Elizabeth White was pretty; tall, thin, dark blond and tan.  But Erika wouldn’t have called her sensual.  Her curves were faint, her breasts small and starting to sag, her skin going steadily more elastic.  She didn’t _look_ like Carmen, and no matter how good her acting and singing may be, stripped of the visual appeal of a young and beautiful woman, the story would make so much less sense.

            Erika’s audition had been perfect.  She had sung the Habanera shamelessly, and she had known her small audience had been delighted by her miniature performance.  Erika was young and beautiful, she had no qualms against admitting that herself.  Her dark curls were never out of place and accented her pale complexion effortlessly.  Her frame, though petite, was a natural hourglass, and quite a noticeable one at that.  Those were winning assets alone, along with her voice.  And then there was her most important asset: French was her first language.  Her annunciation would be both easy and perfect, and most importantly, she would know precisely what was being said without needing to perform the mental gymnastics of translation to ensure the inflections of mood were accurate.

            Erika sipped the last of her coffee and set the mug down rather harshly in the sink.  In such an easy move, she had Logan’s entire attention again.

            “Still upset, eh?” he mused.  He moved in silence to take a place beside her at the sink.

            “This was going to be the way I entered this American scene,” Erika replied.  She ducked her head, watching herself straighten the hem of the lacey purple [blouse](https://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=225700837), and then as her fingers fiddled with the V-neck.  She could _feel_ Logan’s eyes follow the trail of her fingers as the brushed lightly over the soft skin of her breast.  “My career counts on performing,” she continued, trying to subdue the tremor that crept into her voice.  “If I’m not chosen for roles, then I am as good as a failure.”

            “I wouldn’t say that,” Logan rumbled in reply.  “You’re just new.  They don’t know what they’ve got.  You do this _Magic Flute_ thing, and they’ll take you more seriously.”

            “I ‘ope you’re right,” she sighed in reply.  “Sometimes I think I should ‘ave stayed in Paris, forgotten taking a whole break to get away from everything . . .”

            Logan flicked the sink on, taking up the dishes to rinse them off.  “But then we wouldn’t be here,” he pointed out.  “You needed that break, get a clear head after a nasty breakup.  Believe me, I understand.”

            Erika glanced at him sidelong as she opened the dishwasher.  “Are you-?”

            “Am I all right?  Yeah,” Logan said with a shrug.  “I’m okay.  Been better, but I’ve been plenty worse, too.”

            He passed her a plate, which she put away quickly.  “Well, if you ever need to talk-”

            “I know,” he said curtly.

            Erika bit at her lip, tucking her hair behind her ear slowly.  She lowered her gaze, fiddling with her shirt again.  She felt almost foolish for offering with the way he cut her off.  Logan certainly didn’t strike her as the type who talked about his feelings, but that didn’t change the fact that she wanted to offer him the chance to if he needed it.

            They worked through the rest of the dishes in a silence that wasn’t as companionable as Erika would have liked.  She kept stealing glances at him, well aware that he wasn’t looking at her.  Sometimes their hands brushed as she took a dish from him, but neither flinched from the contact.  The mixed signals made her feel tense.  Sometimes Logan acted interested, other times he kept her at arm’s length.  It was like some infuriating game.  Was he just leading her on all this time?  Did he just like dangling the possibility in front of her?  Should she just go out some night in a tight dress and find someone, anyone, else?

            A light rapping on the doorframe pulled Erika from her reverie.  The first thing she noticed was the tension in Logan’s shoulders and the scowl that had slipped onto his face.  He turned the water off, but didn’t look towards the doorway.  Erika turned her head as she closed the dishwasher.

            “Oh, Éric,” she said softly.  She straightened abruptly, wiping her hands off on her black skinny jeans.  “There you are.  I was wondering when you’d show.”

            Éric was looking past her, his expression cool and fixed in a bland expression that betrayed no thoughts or feelings.  Erika followed his gaze to . . . Logan.  Confused, she jerked her head back, shooting the maestro a frown.

            Éric brought his eyes to hers, the dark pools as familiarly unreadable as always.  “You wished to speak to me?”

            She nodded, moving towards him quickly.  “Just- I need advice.  I won’t keep you long.”

            Éric smiled, his full lips curving gently.  One of his hands brushed her hair back from her face with a brief, light touch.  “For you, young songstress, I would give all the time I had.”

            Erika bowed her head slightly before she stepped past him out of the kitchen.  Éric followed at her side, a familiar presence that did not hold comfort.  Her last glance back into the kitchen showed Logan looking after her with a darkness in his eyes.

***

            Éric’s advice was little different than anything else that had already been told her or she had already figured out.

            “You must be perfect as Queen of the Night,” he had said, relaxed and at ease in one of the chairs in her room, so unlike Erika herself who sat tense in her place.  “If you perform well enough, the managers will see that, and they’ll start to feature you more.  You have to not only sing well, but look appealing.  Your costume must be elegant, your hair perfect.  You cannot miss a single step or note.  No accidents.  No problems.”

            That was hours ago, and the mixture of annoyed, resigned, low simmering anger had mostly dissipated.  Erika felt tired, curled up in her chair with a glass of wine cradled by the palm of her hand, the stem fitting easily between her fingers.  It was late enough in the day that she didn’t feel any particular guilt in indulging in a drink.

            Her door was open, and she couldn’t say she was surprised when she the low burr of Logan clearing his throat reached her ears.  Erika sat up, turning to look over at him with a small smile.

            “Got a minute?” Logan asked.  He had his arms crossed over his chest, the posture just as familiar as the neutral scowl.

            Erika waved a hand to one of the chairs around the coffee table.  To her surprise, Logan took one right next to her.  With the way he spread his legs, his knee was almost touching her glass of wine.  Erika wrenched her eyes up towards his face, trying to ignore just how close he was to her.  It didn’t help when Logan leaned in, his eyes a darker shade of hazel than she normally saw.

            “Thought you were done with Éric,” he said.  His voice was surprisingly mild.  Erika couldn’t tell if he was concerned as a friend, or if it was something else that was making him bring the matter up.

            “I am,” she replied slowly, pulling her glass back towards herself.  She traced the rim of it with a fingertip.  “But that does not mean we aren’t friends.  Besides, ‘e is familiar with performing; ‘e could give valuable advice.”

            “I take that to mean he wasn’t so useful today.”

            Erika’s lips parted into a small ‘O’.  She regained her composure hurriedly, shaking her head at him.  “That is beside the point.  Éric and I are friends, nothing more.”

            “Does he know that?”  His left eyebrow hitched up in the middle.  “He seemed pretty into you.”

            Erika felt warmth staining her cheeks.  “I made it clear when we broke up that I believed we weren’t good for each other.”

            Logan shifted back in his seat, scrubbing a hand quickly over his face.  “Erika,” he rumbled, his voice gone deep; the sound of it made Erika’s heart lurch in her breast.  “Do you miss him?”

            “That depends,” she admitted softly.  “Do I miss not knowing whether or not there would be an explosive fight?  No.  Do I miss having someone tell me I’m not always good enough?  No.  But do I miss someone caring about me, beyond as just a friend?  Do I miss the dates we went on?  Yes.  I miss the good things about him.  I miss his manners, and his jokes, and riding around Paris on his motorbike.”  She trailed into a shrug, looking down into her glass.  “I don’t see anything wrong with that, Logan.  I don’t see a problem with having good memories and wanting things like them again.”

            “You can have those,” he said softly.  “You will.  Just . . . not from him.  You only get one person; who’s it gonna be?”

            Erika looked back over to him.  She smiled, just a little, eyebrows arching up in a dubiously amused expression.  “ _Mon ami_ , I don’t even know who the other option is.”

            Logan grinned, the barest flash of teeth.  “Sure you do.”

            Erika hummed, tilting her head back slightly.  “I wonder who it could possibly be?”

            Something that could have been a chuckle came from Logan.  He stood slowly, and Erika looked up after him.  “While you’re thinkin’ on that, I’m afraid duty calls for me.”

            Erika smiled fully.  “All right.  _Merci_ , for coming by.  For caring.”

            Logan blinked a couple times.  The corner of his mouth twitched up for a brief second.  “Don’t mention it,” he replied.

            As quietly as he had come, he was gone.  And Erika could only wonder if he knew that she’d already made her choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is awful and I'm sorry but I literally just needed something to fill in a gap and this was what I came up with.


	11. Accelerando

            _Head to toe black and a distant fury blazing in his eyes.  Logan stalked down the hall, a predator, a hunter.  Erika trembled when he loomed over her, flinty eyed and silent.  The leather material of his glove was cool against her cheek.  His touch skimming just under her eye was light as a feather.  Closer he hovered, bodies nearly folding into each other.  His breath was hot against her skin, and she_ ached _for him to lean down just a bit more and-_

            A sharp clap close to her ear snapped Erika out of her spell with a high squeak.  She clutched her mug tight in both hands, creamy coffee sloshing just shy of the rim.  The light laugh drew her attention and she threw a glower at Remy.

            “Welcome back, _chere_.”  Remy’s grin stirred a flicker of annoyance in her chest, but Erika tamped it down.  “How’s de weather in lala land?”

            “Very mild,” Erika replied, her tone dry as a desert.  “You would like it much more than the coming cold.”

            “Ya wouldn’ be wrong,” he drawled.  “Already ate?”

            “ _Oui_.  I suppose you are ‘ere for your own breakfast?”

            Remy hummed in ascent.  He brushed past her to the fridge, and after a brief study, finally pulled out the eggs, and grabbed the loaf of bread.  “Wouldn’t be too surprised if Logan shows up and tries ta beg fo’ some food.”

            “He isn’t very good in a kitchen, is he?”

            “ _Non_ , dere’s horror stories in fact.”  Remy’s laugh was brief, but still warm.  “I don’ mind makin’ extra.  It’s what friends are for, _oui_?”

            Erika hummed her agreement before taking a lazy sip from her coffee.  Unbidden, her mind turned back to its earlier thoughts; the touch of Logan’s hand, the tickle of his breath, the heavy weight of his dark gaze fixed on her lips as he moved closer-

            “De hell’s got ya so distracted dis mornin’ anyway?”

            Erika hummed again, setting her mug down lightly.  She traced the lip of it with a slow finger.  “Only a dream I ‘ad.  It was a bit . . . surprising.”

            The faint sizzle of something being put in the fry pan made Erika look up.  French toast it was for Remy.  Not quite as good as the crepes she had made for herself, she was sure, but still a good meal.  Remy looked sleepy, she noted, his hair pulled back in a haphazard twist that still complemented the rest of his features.  Even the slightly rumpled shirt and sweats he wore managed to look good on him.  Not for the first time, Erika wondered why it was Logan she was dreaming about instead of Remy.  After all, a sweet Southern gentleman with a taste for the finer things in life seemed a more appropriate choice for herself than gruff, simple Logan.

            Except Logan was most certainly not simple.  Logan was achingly, infuriatingly complicated.  There was just something about him that made her heart skip a beat.  And while Remy could elicit that same reaction, it didn’t linger the way it did with Logan, and his touch didn’t leave sparkling butterflies in its wake.

            “What was de dream about, if I may?”  Remy’s drawl was easy, friendly, but the curiosity was quite clear in it.  Erika wondered if he had picked up on her muddled mood.

            “It was just a silly dream,” she replied, hoping to dismiss it.  Already the fine details of it had faded out.  Only Logan was left of that dream, and even though she felt secure in confiding in Remy, it still felt absurd to talk about.  She was little better than a giggling school girl.

            “Must’ve been a nice silly dream, or ya wouldn’t be thinkin’ on it still.”  Remy plated his first piece of toast and started on preparing a second.  “Did it involve anyone in particular?”

            Erika rolled her eyes even though he had his back to her.  “What is it to you?”

            Remy laughed, the sound low and pleasant.  “Jus’ curious.  Ya are my friend, and ya can ask any o’ dem and dey’ll tell ya I’m a nuisance.  Won’t leave ya ‘lone til ya tell me.”

            “I wish you would not,” she grumbled, a bit under her breath.  “It’s a bit embarrassing.”

            “I won’t judge ya, _chere_.  Ya can’t help what ya dream.  And obviously it’s weighin’ on your mind a lot.  And we all know Logan will ask, too.”

            Erika made a sharp sound, and Remy laughed.  “Thought dat might be your reaction,” he drawled.  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ your mind imaginin’ something’ with someone ya like.”

            “You can’t tell him about it,” Erika pleaded.  “He’ll laugh, I just know it.”

            “Maybe, maybe not.  But your secret’s safe wit’ me, _chere_.”  He fell quiet a moment as he continued with his breakfast.  “Still . . . he’ll figure it out eventually.”

            Erika laughed abruptly.  “He already knows.”

            Remy threw an unreadable glance at her over his shoulder before he turned forward to finish preparing his breakfast.  “Wonder why he ain’t done nothin’.  Cause he likes you.  Won’t really admit it, but I know.”

            “I think he’s . . . hesitant,” Erika supplied.  “He does not want to be ‘urt again so soon.  I can’t say I blame him.”

            Remy hummed, the sound decidedly noncommittal.  Erika sat in silence for a moment as he finished, but he seemed to have decided to fall into a rather thoughtful silence.  Shrugging to herself, Erika finished the last of her coffee, washed out the cup, and slipped out.  Whatever was on Remy’s mind wasn’t a bother to her.

***

            Besides the day’s regular training (which had been all business, to her dismay), Erika didn’t cross paths with Logan until after dinner that evening.  She had just been heading up the stairs to retreat to her room for the night.  Though it was a Friday, and most everyone in the school seemed to have something to do, Erika had no plans other than to either curl up with a book or work on some new art.

            Logan appeared at the top of the stairs just as she was stepping onto the second floor.  He was dressed as he always was in jeans and a flannel; clearly he was staying in the night as well, at least for now.

            “Hey,” Logan greeted; he even flashed a slight grin.  They both stopped, mere steps apart; so close, and somehow so distant.  Logan seemed to brush a quick look over her, taking in the soft worn jeans and rather oversized sweater.  “No plans for tonight?”

            Erika smiled a little as she shook her head.  “ _Non_.  Is it that obvious?”

            “Don’t feel bad, eh?  It’s not like I’m goin’ out either.”

            “But at least you do go out, with Remy.  I just stay in all ze time.”

            “And you’re always welcome to join.  You did have fun with us, didn’t you?  Or are we too borin’ for you?”

            “I ‘ad a wonderful time, of course!  I would love to do it again.”

            Logan smiled a little, shifting back towards the stairs.  “Then I’ll make sure t’let you know next time.  But I’ve gotta go.  Hockey’s on tonight.”

            “Don’t let me keep you, then.  I would ‘ate to separate you from your one true love.”

            They both laughed, and Erika felt a pang in her chest at just now lovely Logan’s laugh was.  It was such a shame that he didn’t laugh more.  Their farewells passed her in a daze, and before she knew it, Logan was jogging down the stairs.  Erika was left at the top, alone, almost wishing he would come back for just a second.

***

            Logan ducked into the kitchen, his silence as brooding as ever.  He pulled out a pack of Molson from one of the top cabinets, and dug out a bag of microwave popcorn.  The game wouldn’t be as fun without his traditional snacks, after all.

            He was aware when Remy stepped into the kitchen, his nose picking up easily on the familiar scent of the Cajun.  He gave a grunt that passed for a greeting.

            “Ya know,” Remy drawled from behind him, “I always thought ya were pretty damn smart, Logan.  Startin’ ta wonder if I’m wrong ‘bout dat.”

            Logan threw an empty glower over his shoulder.  “What makes y’say that now?”

            Remy’s peculiar eyes rolled, and the glare he threw to his friend was impressive in its own right.  “Just cause I don’ have a mutant boost don’ mean I’m deaf.  Overheard ya and Erika.”

            “What’s your point?  I didn’t do anything.”

            “Exactly!  Dat’s exactly my point!  Ya did nothin’.  It’s Friday night and a pretty girl dat you’re quite blatantly interested in has nothin’ ta do.  You’ve got mostly nothin’ ta do.”  Logan turned sharply, opening his mouth to protest, but Remy cut him off.  “Can record de damn game, _mec_ , or jus’ look it up in de mornin’ and watch some ESPN recap.”

            “If she wanted t’go out, she coulda said somethin’ just as easily as me askin’,” Logan grumbled as he turned back to the microwave.  He opened it just before the beep, shaking the bag halfheartedly.

            “She ain’t gonna do dat, and ya know it.”  Remy sighed, loudly.  “She’s old fashioned.  You’re de man, you’re de one ta ask her out when it ain’t official.  For God’s sake, _mon ami_ , she might as well be wearin’ a damn sign!”

            “Didn’t know it was your business.”

            “It’s my business when my one friend’s pinin’ and de other’s a dumbass sometimes.”

            Logan shook his head as he poured the bag of popcorn into a bowl.  “It’s not the right time.  You may remember I just recently got out of a relationship?”

            “And I know it hurt, but for fuck’s sake, Logan!  You two been pussyfootin’ around each other two months at least.”  Remy threw his hands in the air.  “Ain’t like it’s hard ta take her on a date.  Alone.  No Remy bein’ third wheel.”

            “Can ya drop it for tonight?  The game’s startin’ soon.”

            “Sure,” the Cajun growled, “go ahead.  Wouldn’t wanna do anythin’ drastic now.”

            Logan sighed, holding the bowl of popcorn out to Remy.  The younger man scooped up a handful begrudgingly.  “I’ll think about it,” Logan huffed.  “After the game.”

            “Dat’s about all I can ask for from de like’s o’ you,” Remy drawled.  All the spitfire was gone with his point made.  “Get on, now, wouldn’t wanna miss de precious hockey game.”

            Logan barked out a laugh as he brushed by him, beer and popcorn in hand.  “You’re an ass,” he called back over his shoulder.

            He wouldn’t know about the calculating look Remy wore, or how he hurried back upstairs to his own room.  Logan was otherwise occupied, and if Logan wouldn’t act, and since Erika was too shy, someone had to accelerate the obvious.  And who better than a mutual friend?

***

            Saturday seemed to drag for Erika.  She had finished reading a wonderful book, thrown on a jacket and gone for a walk down the path into the woods, cooked and cleaned and chatted with a few of the X-Men and students.  She hadn’t seen Logan, or Remy; a little asking around proved Logan was running a couple errands, but Remy was far more elusive.

            So she returned to her room.  She called home and talked with her parents for a long time.  Gave her eager approval of the idea of spending maybe a week of the holiday season with the whole family.  And after that, it was dull again.

            It was early evening when there was a knock on her doorframe, easily heard through the partially open door.  Erika pushed her rolling chair away from the small desk where her laptop sat, but when she faced the door, no one was there.  A little flutter of annoyance sparked in her breast.  She stood with a huff, crossing the floor quickly.  She started to push her door shut – and stopped when she noticed the little envelope on the floor.  Her name was on it, a cursive scrawl that was rough, but still had a charm to it.  She bent and picked it up, turning it over to open quickly.  Mindlessly, she pushed her door closed with a quick bump from her hip.

            She opened the little letter quickly.  Inside was a slip of folded paper, which she was quick to smooth out.  Her eyes skimmed over it, widening at the message within.  Erika threw a look to the clock before setting the note down and running to her closet.


	12. Crescendo

            The black beads of her [dress ](https://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=197727886)shimmered as Erika paced about her room for the final few minutes.  She shook her hands as she paced, as much to dry the topcoat on her long nails as to try and somehow shake the nerves out of her.  Her heels clattered on the floor, back and forth.  A quick toss of her head sent the few loose curls that hadn’t fit in the chignon out of her face.

            Not for the last time, she stopped in front of her mirror as if somehow her outfit looked any better or worse than it had earlier.  The gown was one of the many she had stockpiled over her life; between her father’s high society art shows, the numerous doctor’s award ceremonies for her mother, and the very galas of the opera, Erika had a small plethora of evening wear.  She had far fewer opportunities to wear them lately, and an invitation that specifically asked her to dress well was an easy excuse for her.  Besides, she needed the confidence boost tonight.

            Delicate as a kitten, she tapped a finger against the polish; her finger slid smoothly over the perfectly dry surface.  She checked the other fingers quickly before balling quick, loose fists, then went over to her vanity where she had dropped the note.  She picked it up, skimming her fingertips over Logan’s name at the bottom.

            It felt like a dream to her.  A little laugh bubbled up out of her.  The instructions on the invitation were as much a part of the excitement.  There would be a trail to lead her to the room their dinner would be in.  She was to leave at seven-twenty sharp, not a minute more or less.  The waiting was driving her nearly wild.

            The alarm on her phone went off suddenly.  Already breathless, Erika switched it off only seconds after, and hurried to her door.  The butterflies in her stomach had grown massive.  Her hand shook as she opened the door and stepped out.

            Her eyes were drawn to the hardwood floor.  There at her feet, trailing off into the rest of the mansion, was a path of red rose petals sprinkled into a narrow path.  A wave of dizziness pulled at her head, forcing her to lean against the doorframe for a few seconds.

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered to herself.  A quick shake of her hands had her straightening again.  Erika was off in seconds, carefully walking beside the meticulously placed path.  It didn’t take long to recognize she was heading to the east wing, where some of the more formal rooms were located.

            For the first time, curiosity truly hit her.  Erika paused, dark red lips drawn into a thoughtful line.  Logan was a man of simple pleasures, and she’d never seen anything extravagant from him.  Surely he couldn’t have done this all alone?

            Was it even him behind this?  Was it a cruel joke?

            Her heart convulsed in her chest.  No, that just couldn’t be.  She refused to believe that.

            She all but stormed onward, heels loud and hard.  She scampered down stairs, through halls, around corners, into a portion of the house she was far less familiar with.  A little voice insisted that she shouldn’t blindly trust; another countered that this wasn’t the first time, and that all those prior had ended relatively well.  Everything was going to be fine.

            A door reared up before her, and the petals disappeared under it.  Erika drew to a halt, eyes narrowing as she just picked up the softest strains of music from the other side.  This had to be her location, then.  She flicked back loose curls, straightened her dress, twisted the heavy ring on her hand to make sure the black stone was centered still.  Took a long, deep breath, diaphragm expanding to its fullest as if she were about to launch into an intense aria.

            Her hand curled over cold metal.  It turned easily, and the door opened with only the slightest sound.  Erika blinked a few times, adjusting to the lower lighting of the room as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.  There was music, very low, but there; she recognized the song as one she had on her phone.  The chandelier that dominated the ceiling was only barely lit; most of the illumination came from candles and a warm fire.

            The center floor was taken by a small, round table, perfectly sized for two and covered in a brocade tablecloth.  There were two covered dishes, likely to keep them warm, full silverware, a bottle of wine, a small centerpiece of beautiful, delicate flowers.

            And by the table stood Logan, his eyes locked on her.

            Erika felt tears stinging at her eyes.  She felt like she was spilling a hundred emotions out into a puddle around herself.  Relief, delight, shock, so many others.  She brought her hands to her face, covering her nose and mouth.  It had to be a dream, it really had to be a dream because it was all too perfect-

            “Erika?”

            She looked at Logan again, really looked this time.  He was underdressed compared to Erika, though that didn’t bother her at all; she wouldn’t have cared if he came in his usual attire.  The fact that he’d put in the effort of a suit – and it was a _nice_ suit at that, and very well tailored – was more than enough to make the night perfect.  He’d cleaned up to less scruffy and more . . . _refined_.  Like he really was the son of a wealthy landowner in the nineteenth century.

            But his eyes gave one thing away.

            Erika dropped her hands, folding them in front of herself.  She cleared her throat once, cleared it again to make sure she would actually be able to speak.  “You didn’t do this.”

            Logan’s eyes slid to the table, one eyebrow arched up sharply.  “No.  I can’t cook, and whatever’s under those lids is really good.”  He looked back at her, a smile at his lips.  “But I know who did.  You can prob’ly guess.”

            Her mind all but lurched back to the previous morning and her brief conversation with Remy.  The unreadable look on his face had been almost calculating in hindsight.  And how many other times had he made sure she and Logan had time alone?  She couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head mostly to herself.

            “I would assume Remy,” she hummed.  “He ‘as been rather impatient with us I would say.”

            “You have no idea,” Logan replied.  Erika just caught him rolling his eyes.  “Gotta admit, I was suspicious o’ the note left at my door.  You’re not exactly the type t’ask someone on a date.”

            Erika laughed again.  “And I thought a note and a trail of rose petals was a bit extravagant for your taste.”

            “Guilty as charged.  I was actually gonna look at places to get dinner sometime.  But this works, too.”  He paused, frowning at the room for a second.  “At least, as long as you want to stay.”

            “Are you kidding?” Erika blurted.  “Why would you think I want to leave?”

            “Because you were led to believe I planned all this and I didn’t?”  He shrugged – Erika hated how much she admired the play of his shoulders under his suit coat.

            “That’s no reason to leave when I’ve wanted something like this for months.  Really, Logan, don’t be silly.”

            He grinned, clearly pleased by her response.  “In that case, what are we waiting for?  I’m starving.”

***

            Their plates had been pushed aside at least an hour ago, but Erika thought it may have been longer.  They were laughing and talking endlessly.  All the tension that had built between them seemed to have simply vanished, blown away by a fresh breeze.  Erika didn’t know the last time she had felt so relaxed and at ease around him, when she hadn’t had to plan her every word and movement so it wouldn’t too heavily betray her heart.

            Their conversation had spanned just about every subject imaginable, following an easy and seamless flow.  If it was a dream, Erika hoped she never woke up.

            The night had grown late already, and the first hints of sleepiness were pulling at Erika’s mind.  The wine was gone, and her share of it had given her a pleasant buzz.  Logan was telling her a story from the tail end of the nineteenth century, and his voice was a steady and pleasant timbre that was just so soothing . . .

            “Erika.  Hey.  If you’re tired we can call it a night.”

            Erika made a soft sound, cracking her eyes back open.  “ _Désolé_ ,” she sighed out, “I ‘ave no idea why I am so tired.”

            “I’d say it’s the excitement,” Logan rumbled.  “C’mon, let’s get you to your room.  I’ll make sure this gets cleaned up.”

            She hummed agreeably; her bed really did sound wonderful.  Logan was already at her side as she stood up, and his hand lighted on her waist and his arm wrapped around her and she could only sigh in delight at his touch.  As he led her back to her room, it was easy for her head to droop and rest against his shoulder.

            They were almost to her room when Erika finally thought to ask the one question that had itched at her all night.  A simple tug at his clothes had him halting and turning to her.

            “Why me?” Erika asked softly.  “I’m not your type, as far as I’ve seen.  And God knows you could ‘ave anyone you desired.  Why me?”

            He seemed surprised by the question, but there was no hesitation in his response.  “Because you bring out somethin’ good in me.  Somethin’ not many people have ever been able t’bring out in me before.  You make me wanna be better.  Be someone you deserve.”

            Erika frowned, shaking her head a little.  “You do.  You already do.”

            “I’ve done things, you know.  Bad things.”

            “That’s no excuse; we all ‘ave done bad things of our own.”

            “But–”

            Erika shook her head more insistently, swatting at him lightly.  “Enough of zat.  I believe you are good.”

            He smiled, squeezing his arm around her.  The gesture made her turn into him a bit more, her hands finding an easy grip on the lapels of his jacket.  Even in heels, she had to tip her head up to look at him.  He was smiling a bit again.

            “Mind if I ask you the same question?” he murmured.

            “Why you?”  Erika hummed softly, fingers idly stroking the material of his suit.  “You gave me exactly what I needed from the moment we first met.  You did not demand anything of me.  You challenge me, certainly, but in a good way; you ‘elp me improve.  You are good, fundamentally good.  You . . . you wouldn’t hurt me.”

            “Never,” he agreed, one hand brushing back the loose parts of her hair.  Before Erika could argue, his fingers had unwound her hair and repositioned the pins she had used to push back the hair on the left side of her face.  His hand lingered there, and it was so easy for her to lean into that touch just a bit.  His head bent, his touch tilting her chin up a bit more.  His breath was warm, smelling slightly of wine.

            Something like electricity shot through Erika’s whole body when his lips found hers in the lightest touch.  Her hands convulsed, grabbing at him and pulling him closer.  She couldn’t help from pressing back, her lips awakening as if from a long slumber at his slightest touch.  Dimly, she could make out his arms moving around her, pressing her closer, closer, so close her breasts were all but crushed against his strong chest, as if their bodies could mold into each other.  One hand was heavy at her neck, fingers tangled in her hair.  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling herself up, wanting to be somehow _closer_ -

            She felt him move, carrying her now as if she was might of air.  Her back hit her door roughly, her surprised gasp sounding as he pulled away.  His beard rasped over her cheek, his blessed mouth finding the hammering pulse in her throat.  She could only whimper and cling to him, trying in vain to catch her breath as he kissed over her skin.  She was burning from the inside, blood boiling in her veins-

            Again his lips found hers, but this time he was softer, so much softer.  Erika found her arms unwinding from his shoulders, stroking down his chest.  His own hands were drawing away from around her until they were mostly two once more instead of one.  Erika was satisfied to see he was breathing a bit harder than usual as well.

            “I should let you sleep,” Logan whispered, even as he nuzzled at her hair.  Erika could just feel his lips touch her temple.

            “Tomorrow?” she whispered.  She wasn’t even sure what she was asking, only that she had to see him, touch him, kiss him all over again tomorrow.

            Logan seemed to understand, if the little grin he wore was any indication.  “Tomorrow,” he agreed.  A last touch of his lips against her skin, and then he was drawing away.  His hands lingered the longest, weighing on her before slipping away.

            Erika watched him walk down the hall.  He broke into a cheerful whistle, and Erika felt her heart skip a bit.  Once he was gone from view, she breezed into her room.  It was dark, but she navigated flawlessly around the room, pulling pins from her hair and removing her jewelry, and finally her dress.  In moments, she had slipped on her nightgown and collapsed in bed.

            In seconds she was asleep, and dreaming of what tomorrow would bring.


	13. Delight

Sunlight streamed through her window, and still Erika lay sprawled in bed.

            Her hair, uncharacteristically left down overnight, lay spread out over the silky pillowcase, curls gone limp overnight.  Her body was stretched out, a single, curving shape under the sheets.  Though her eyes were closed, she smiled, a delicate curve of her lips.  One arm was stretched up, fingers plucking and playing at the ends of her hair.  Bliss hung heavy around her, pinning her down to the soft mattress.

            She had forgotten to turn on her alarm clock last night, but it was all right.  She felt a bit bad for not getting up in time for morning Mass, but she could simply attend an evening mass.  Rehearsals for her opera didn’t start for a few days still.  Training wasn’t until the afternoon – and wouldn’t that be interesting now, she mused.  How could she hope to pay attention when she knew just how his arms felt around her body, how his hand cradled her head, how his lips felt?  It would be impossible.

            She giggled to herself, squirming into the warm bedding until she was buried up to her nose.  Blue eyes blinked open, sweeping lazily across the ceiling.  It seemed so odd to her that everything should look the same.  The world was fundamentally shifted.  Nothing was the same for her.

            Erika sighed, turning over and flopping one arm out to her nightstand.  She picked up her phone, checking the time – laughing when she saw it was already past eleven.  “I should get up,” she muttered to herself.  She set her phone back down, sitting up slowly.  A few twists and stretches before she bounced out of bed and skipped over to her closet.  It was a lazy Sunday; finery could wait until Mass.  In moments she had changed into a worn pair of jeans and an oversized sweater.  Her hair was hopeless, and with a defeated shrug she simply gathered the top layer and pulled it back.

            A hungry pang crawled through her stomach, and Erika laughed a little to herself.  She was in far too good a mood to let anything bother her, especially when breakfast was so easy to manage.

            She floated out of her room, down the hall and the stairs and all the way to the kitchen.  She was humming, airy and cheerful.  Everything was right, everything was well in the world.

            Erika turned into the kitchen, only to pause in the doorway, silent now.  Her eyes were locked on him, Logan leaned back in a chair, head tipped back and eyes closed, for all the world resembling a cat in repose.  Erika bit back a giggle, instead leaning against the doorframe to watch his stillness.  A backdrop sound of morning coffee brewing finished the tranquil scene, so much like any number of mornings she had always dreamed of with whoever her future husband would be.

            The wild thought of mornings like this, with Logan of all people, had her drawing in a sharp breath, fingers gripping convulsively at the wood frame.  She blushed a little as Logan cracked an eye open, a soft and lazy look.  His eyebrow lifted sharply at her, and Erika ducked her head to hide the deepening flush behind a fall of curls.

            “Don’t have t’just stand there,” Logan drawled.  “I’m not gonna bite you.  At least, not unless you ask.”

            Erika laughed, already drifting into the space.  She could see the glint in his eyes, the teasing smile, and it was miraculous how the lightness of his words settled her back in her skin.  Last night had been so delightfully real, and better yet, no damage had come from it at all.

            “I’d rather you don’t bite in public, at least,” Erika replied, echoing the humor Logan showed.  “We can’t ‘ave everyone gossiping about a scandal.  Did you eat already?”

            “Nah.  Was just gonna get a coffee, take a run maybe.  It’s good weather for it.”

            “A good reason to eat, though,” Erika hummed as she drifted over to the cabinets.  “You need to eat more than most, _non_?  You’ll need calories to replace the ones you lose.”

            “Well . . . yeah, I guess-”

            “So stay right zere.  I’ll make something quick, and you should wait a bit to let it digest, and then you can go after your run.”  She tossed an easy smile back at him before focusing on searching the contents of the kitchen.  It was well stocked, and she decided quickly on pancakes; the oversized box of mix was inviting, as was the appeal of something so easy.  She flipped the stove on before opening the box and starting to measure out some mix.

            “You know you don’t have to,” Logan said, his words slower and a bit more hesitant than normal.  Cautious even.  It was unlike him.

            Erika smiled a bit to herself.  It was amusing in a way, the careful way he was acting.  “I want to.  I’ll feel better knowing you ate since last night.”

            There was a brief pause, a sharp rise in tension.  Erika forced herself to continue preparing the pancake mix, to try and seem unbothered by the knowledge that Logan was staring at her.  She tried to ignore the clatter of the chair hitting the ground and the light tread of his feet.  She leaned over to the cabinet where the skillets were kept, pulling one free and setting it on the heated burner.  Finished mixing the batter into that perfect consistency before pouring some out.

            She felt every centimeter of Logan’s skin as he brushed back her hair and tucked it behind her ear.  The slow way he traced the shell made her shiver a little, breath catching in her throat.

            “Guess this is the follow up, eh?” he rasped, shifting to lean against the counter beside her.

            “You could call it that.”  Her voice was surprisingly steady, contrary to the slam of her heart.  This close to him, she could feel tension crawling over her skin and drawing it tight over her bones.  She wanted to throw herself at him, yank him down into a hard and bruising kiss.  She wanted to run, screaming, to get some space and clear her head.  She never wanted it to stop.

            His knuckles skimmed down her back.  Erika squirmed, breathing out a little laugh at the tingling tickle left behind.  He repeated the gesture, and Erika could feel his happiness washing against her like waves.  It was impossible not to relax against him, especially when his arm settled around her hips.  Maybe she should have felt trapped, but there was something safe about the way he leaned over her.  She couldn’t help but hum a little as she kept an eye on the stove.

            Logan’s head bent, and Erika sighed as he nuzzled at her hair.  She let her head tip forward a little, and was unsurprised when he shifted towards her neck.  The graze of his lips against the flash of bare skin made her tremble, wrenching a little sound out of her.  How could such little gestures make her knees so weak?

            And suddenly he was gone.  Dazed, Erika straightened, turning her head after him – just in time for the coffee to finish.  Logan grabbed two mugs and filled them both.

            “Heightened senses,” he said, flashing her a brief smile.  “Lets me hear things you can’t.”

            “It must be ‘andy,” she managed, voice little more than a croak.  She forced herself to flip the first pancake over, to settle her breathing down.

            Logan made an agreeing sound, grabbing one of the many varieties of creamer.  French vanilla she realized as she glanced over.  He was adding it to one of the mugs with an incredibly focused expression.  Stopped, tilted his head a moment, and added a dash more.  Marveling, she watched as he mixed it in evenly.

            “You can smell it,” she said.

            “Yes.”

            “And you remembered exactly how my coffee smelled from – one time?”

            “Yeah.  I paid attention.”  Logan held the cup out to her.  “Not sure if it’s quite right.  Might be less than normal.”

            Erika took it, sipping delicately at the hot liquid.  The heat flushed down her throat and blossomed in her stomach.  “It’s in ze range I like,” she replied, laughing a little.  She paused to grab a plate, taking up the first pancake before moving on to the next one.  “I didn’t know you were that sensitive.”

            Logan shrugged, settling in nearby her with his own mug.  “Most people don’t.  Only the special ones do.”

            The heat burst in her again, his words wrapping around her like a warm blanket.  Erika couldn’t have hoped to stop her smile no matter how hard she’d tried.

***

            The rest of breakfast was quick to make, and before Erika knew it, Logan was helping her with the dishes.  He had tackled the skillet as Erika loaded the dishwasher.  At odd seconds, he would flick water at her with a grin.  It was easy, comfortable, a lazy morning.  Erika could have repeated it a hundred times and still wanted more.

            She was just closing the dishwasher when she heard humming and footsteps.  They were light and quick, bouncy even.  By the time she turned around, a young girl was flouncing in; one of the students.  Her black hair was worn in a longer pixie cut, and a large pair of pink sunglasses were pushed onto the top of her head to keep the hair pushed out of her face.

            “Hey, Wolvie!” the girl chirped.  Recognition clicked for Erika; it was Jubilee, one of the few children Logan took a particular shine to.

            Jubilee skipped over and hugged Logan.  The feral hugged her back, one hand ruffling her hair a bit despite her protests.

            “What’re you up to, Jubes?” Logan asked.

            “I was gonna head out to the mall with Laura, try and get her to lighten up some more.”  Jubilee grinned over at Erika.  “She’s just as stuffy as her dad.”

            “It’s a marvel either relax any,” Erika remarked with a smile of her own.  Logan threw her a scowling frown that she laughed off easily.

            “See?  I told you so!” Jubilee crowed.  “You really do need to relax, Wolvie.  You’re always so tense.  Oh, I know!  You should actually dress up for the Halloween party finally!”

            “Jubilee,” he said with a frown.

            “Halloween party?” Erika asked, immediately beaming.  “Well, why didn’t anyone ever mention that?”

            “I can tell you all about it!” Jubilee said, pausing to blow a large bubble from her gum.  “It’s mainly for the kids, but the adults go, too, chaperoning and all that.  Pretty much everyone dresses up in all sorts of costumes, except Logan because he hates parties.  There’s technically a dress code but as long as you’re decent no one really cares.  There’s music and snacks and drinks and everyone dances and it’s so awesome!”

            “It certainly sounds like a wonderful time,” Erika agreed.  Already her mind was whirling with what she could wear.  She hadn’t brought any specific costumes, but her closet was full of endless possibilities that would lean towards a gothic nature.

            “So you’ll go, right?”

            Erika offered a radiant grin.  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, _ma chere_.”

            Jubilee cheered, springing up from the ground.  “Now you really gotta go, Logan!  Even Laura’s going this year, come on, please?”

            Logan breathed out a long, deep sigh.  He glanced at Erika, as if looking for some sort of exit from her.  The Parisienne shook her head slightly; she certainly wasn’t going to bail him out.

            “Okay, all right,” Logan grumbled, the sound half-hearted at best.  “I’ll go.”

            “Yes!  You’re the best, Logan!”  Jubilee launched herself at him for a brief hug.  “I gotta go though, Laura and I need to get the best costumes!”  The girl bolted out just as quick and sudden as she came.

            Logan looked at the door for a lingering moment, an exaggerated look of long suffering pulling at his face.  “This is all your fault, y’know.”

            Erika burst into laughter, sudden and brilliant.  “It’s all in good fun, Logan.  Per’aps you will even enjoy it.  Though now I really ‘ave to look into what I can make a costume from in such short notice.”

            She didn’t think about moving to leave, but she only made it a step before Logan had grasped her arm and pulled her to a halt.  Erika made a slight sound of confusion; it barely had time to leave her lips as he turned her around and caught hold of her jaw in one gentle hand.

            Logan kissed her, firm and lingering.  Erika made a muffled sound against his lips, whole body melting into him.  Her skin seemed to tingle all over, shivers sparkling along her bones.

            Logan leaned out of the kiss, lips barely moving from hers.  “Once you figure out what you’re gonna wear, you’re gonna give me a hand.”

            Erika smiled, slitting her eyes open to regard him.  “Is zat an order?”

            Logan’s eyes opened fully, his expression shifting to an exaggerated scowl.  “You bet it is.  It’s your fault, remember?”

            Erika laughed, feather soft as she shook her head.  “I don’t mind one bit, _mon cher_.  And I’ll make sure you ‘ave a good time.”

            Logan smiled a little, brushing her curls back again before he stepped away.  “I believe you.  Now go on.  Go work some magic.”

            Erika grinned, squeezing Logan’s before slipping away from him.  It was a force of will to not look back at him as she turned out of the kitchen, but she could feel him watching her go.  Only when she was out of sight did she allow her smile to brighten more and her step to skip her along.  Her thoughts were filled with a hundred daydreams, and she wanted nothing else.


	14. Costume

            “A vampire is probably easiest, no?  I just ‘ave to wear blacks and reds, go out and buy some cheap fangs.  What do you think?”

            “I think you still wanna be a vampire to some degree,” her father’s voice drifted from her computer.

            Erika frowned at the screen, ignoring the laugh it earned her.  “I see nothing wrong with ‘aving a favorite Halloween monster.”

            “No, but you did run around in a cape for a few months when you were six, insisting that sunlight would hurt you.”

            Erika rolled her eyes, shaking her head.  “All children ‘ave phases.  Won’t you answer the question?”

            “Well, what sort o’ vampire are you thinking of?  What era, what location?”

            “Victorian, French; the usual things, Papa, really.”

            “Hmm.  I should have guessed that.  Okay, well, in that case I’d pick a corset.  Some lace.  You’ve got everything you need except the fangs.”

            “So you think it’s a good choice?”  Her fingers strayed to the ends of her hair, slipping into the ringlets to twist and pull.  “It won’t look tacky, or-?”

            “Erika, hold on.”  Hours away, her father sat up, leaning in closer to his computer.  Erika bit her lips slightly, continuing to play with her hair.  Quiet stretched between them.  The young woman shifted uneasily under her father’s sudden scrutiny.

            Seeming satisfied, Charles sat back.  He ran a hand through his dark hair before scratching at his beard.  It had recently begun to be speckled with gray hairs.  Erika knew her mother thought it to be rather dashing, which pleased her father endlessly.

            “Who’s the guy?” her father finally said.

            Erika’s eyebrows shot up, eyes blinking a few times in quick succession.  “ _Pardon_?  Who’s ze guy?  What do you mean?”

            He grinned, white teeth radiant against the rich tan of his face.  “Oh, come on.  The last time I saw you fretting over an outfit so much was when you were trying to catch Éric’s eye.  So who’s the new guy?”  Charles’ expression darkened abruptly into a sharp frown.  “It better not be Éric again–”

            “No, no, that is in ze past where it belongs,” Erika replied – a bit sharper than she intended, but her point was made.  What had happened between her and Éric was a mistake she would not make twice; they were far better off as friends than lovers.

            But what did she say about Logan?  For all they had talked last night at dinner, neither of them had offered any definition, or asked for one, about their relationship.  Were they still only friends?  How did she explain the burning in-between they occupied?

            Only at her father’s laughter did Erika realize she had pulled a strange expression; her upper lip had curled up a bit, revealing something like a confused grimace.  She ironed the expression out into a placid smile as quick as she could.

            “It’s complicated,” she finally offered.

            “Complicated,” her father echoed.  “Sounds fun.  It wouldn’t happen to be that Logan fellow you mentioned before, would it?”

            Try as she might, Erika couldn’t keep the blush from rushing up her neck and across her face.  “Well–”

            “Well that’s certainly interesting!”  Her father laughed, seemingly delighted by the turn of events.  “Won’t Marie love telling me she was right about that one!”

            Erika couldn’t help but arch her brows up.  “Right about it?  You and mother are trying to predict my life abroad now?”

            “We like to guess?”  His laugh had a slightly uneasy quality to it, though Erika could tell he didn’t feel particularly bad.  She smiled herself, softening; after all, there was no harm in curiosity.

            “We just wonder about you, about the little details,” her father continued.  “Of course you tell us about what you’re up to, through letters and Skype calls, but it isn’t the same as seeing you and talking to you every day.  We just wonder what goes on, day to day, the little things that happen that don’t make the cut so to speak.”

            “That’s natural I’d say,” Erika hummed softly.  “But really, I live a rather boring life ‘ere.  Not that everything was always exciting in Paris, but . . .”  She trailed off into a delicate shrug.

            “So tell me about him.  What’s Logan like?”

            Erika rolled her eyes, earning a laugh from her father.  “Of course you would ask zat.  I don’t know if it is my place to gossip about it, though.  We ‘ave not made anything official.”

            “But you want to, don’t you?  You like him.”

            “I do,” she agreed softly.  “I just don’t know if it will really work out.  We’re quite different.”

            “And your mother and I aren’t?”

            Erika laughed, a brief, quick sound.  “Good point.  I don’t think I know a ‘appier couple.”

            “Exactly!  Opposites attract and all that.  How are you opposite?”

            “Papa!” Erika scolded.  “I said I shouldn’t talk about it!”

            “Oh, come on!  Just a bit?”

            Erika sighed, shaking her head slowly.  “You’re impossible, you know that?  Very well.  Logan’s much simpler.  Doesn’t dress up particularly.  Rough around the edges.  Likes bars and ‘ard liquor, but ‘e doesn’t get drunk because of ‘is mutation, so you don’t ‘ave to worry about that.  We’re just . . . different.”

            “There’s nothing wrong with that, Erika,” her father pointed out gently.  “Different is good.  You’ll see the world differently through each other.  And maybe it’ll help you grow closer.  Or maybe you’ll see more in common than you see this early.  I mean, he already sounds nice enough, which is an upgrade–”

            “You just didn’t like Éric **.”**

            “No, I didn’t.  He was too old for you.”

            Erika bit her lip, trying not to smile.  “Well, don’t get too excited about Logan, then.”

            Her father paused, tipping his head a bit to the side as he thought.  “It’s different now.  You’re twenty-five, a little older.  You’ve grown a lot since then, physically, emotionally.  Ten years is still a bit of a larger gap, but I don’t think it’d be such a problem now.”

            “Mmm.  Well.  Logan is well over one hundred years old.”

            Charles froze.  A frown slowly came to him, furrowing his brow.  His mouth opened, then closed.  Opened again, closed again.  Opened another time.  “A hundred?” he finally managed, his voice clearly disbelieving.

            “I really can’t make that up,” she said with a smile.  “His mutation heals his body from virtually all damage.  It allows ‘im to live a very, very long time.”

            Charles whistled, the sound long and low.  “Damn.  That’s impressive.  Does he look at all old, or . . . ?”

            Erika shook her head, smiling perhaps a bit too brightly.  “Not at all.  He looks about thirty, thirty-five at the very most.  But his eyes, they look old.  It’s a fascinating appearance.”

            “I can only imagine.  You don’t think he’s a bit old for you, dear?” he teased.

            Erika laughed, shaking her head.  “You’re ‘opeless, Papa.”

            “Perhaps,” he replied, “but I’m only looking out for you.  If things work out, you’ll have to introduce us, somehow.  Of course, we’ll be coming to the States in July to visit my parents, so we could see you as well, do it in person.  Or we could do it over this if that would be easier.”

            “You’re getting quite ahead of this, Papa,” she pointed out, frowning just a bit.

            “Yes, but I have high hopes!  And you must keep us up to date on him, whatever does happen.  I figure I should let you go about finishing your costume, no?”

            “Likely.  Thank you for the advice.  _Je t’aime_ , Papa.”

            His grin was radiant as he blew her a quick kiss.  “ _Je t’aime aussi, ma belle fille_.”

            Erika blew back a kiss before signing off.  After closing Skype, she leaned back in her chair with a smile.  She couldn’t deny that hearing her father be relatively approving of a man he didn’t know and didn’t know much of made her feel good.  Her parents meant to world to her, and knowing they were happy for her and approving of her decisions always lifted her spirits.

            But there was no time to waste!  The Halloween party was only days away, and Erika needed to see what she did and did not have for her costume.  She sprang from her seat, hurrying across the floor to her closet.  She threw the doors open, revealing the well-sized step in closet.  It was well-filled with a variety of clothes.  Three sets of hanging racks went around the room.  The largest of these, on the back wall, was filled with clothing.  On the far left hung a modest collection of evening wear, covered in translucent bags; art event protocol was to avoid being seen in the same outfit for two or three years, and Erika had made sure to bring enough to ensure she would be safe from that risk.  After the evening gowns came the maxi-dresses in a variety of styles, colors, and fabrics, followed by the rest of her dresses.  Next came the skirts, similarly ordered from longest to shortest.  Finally there were her blouses and sweaters.

            To the left Erika had hung up her coats and jackets.  Beneath them was a rack covered in a variety of shoes, ranging from summer sandals to tall boots.  Across the way, on the right, hung Erika’s more private clothing.

            Predominantly they were nightgowns; lovely things of silk or satin, edged with lace, often with matching silk robes.  However, there were also a few pieces of lingerie that Erika never had a use for but couldn’t quite resist.  It was underneath this that she was interested in.  A small chest sat beneath it; on the front was painted a lovely field in sunset with horses grazing.  Her father had painted it at her request.

            Inside the chest, Erika stored her small collection of fashion corsets.  They weren’t truly functioning corsets; they couldn’t cinch tight to truly shape her waist.  While they did reduce her waist size slightly, it was hardly noticeable.  They were far more effective at ensuring she retained good posture.  Typically they made their appearances at night; they had been a staple when she had been young and going to Parisian clubs with her friends in the _Conservatoire National_ on weekend nights.  Now they would be perfect for her costume.

            It took a bit of searching, but soon she found the corset she had in mind.  It was deep black silk, the top line decorated in some dark beads.  Attached were long, loose sleeves of black lace that would fall off the shoulder.  It had been a long time favorite of hers and would perfectly match the desired look.

            Finding everything else was too easy, and soon Erika had a small pile of clothes set aside for the party.  Everything was available except for the fangs; she would have to go out and get some soon.  But first, she should see to Logan.

            She hurried to his room, already trying to imagine some possible costumes.  A werewolf, while doable and certainly a fitting choice for the feral, it wouldn’t be easy.  Erika was a fan of flamboyant costumes, but she doubted Logan would feel similarly.  Perhaps his wardrobe would offer some ideas?

            She was at his room all too soon, and still had no ideas of what to do.  Sighing to herself, she knocked quickly on his door.  Maybe he wouldn’t even be in and she would have time to think of something, anything-

            His door swept open.  Erika barely even saw him before she felt his hand grabbing her wrist and pulling her in.  The door clapped shut behind her, loud and making her start.  She opened her mouth to say something, but then Logan was kissing her.

            It wasn’t anything like their kisses so far.  Those had all been softer, more hesitant, testing the waters.  But in that moment, his lips were scalding against hers, taking and devouring her.  Erika’s heart thundered, blood roaring in her ears.  Her free hand reached up, wrapping around broad shoulders to pull herself closer.  Recovering from her initial shock, she was able to return the kiss, pouring out the tempest of feelings that had been ravaging her heart all this time.

            The kiss was eternity wrapped in a handful of seconds.  When they finally parted, both breathing hard to fill empty lungs, Erika felt as if her world should somehow be different for the kiss.  She tilted her head immediately when Logan bent to nuzzle at her; she was more than happy to be subject to his affections.

            “That’s one way to say hello,” she finally sighed.  Still clinging to him, she could feel the low laugh that worked through Logan’s chest.

            “Didn’t seem you minded,” he pointed out.

            Erika hummed in agreement, her eyes drifting shut.  “I came ‘ere with a purpose, you know.”

            “Costume.  I know.”  His lips brushed near her ear.  Erika shivered at the touch.  “Doesn’t mean I can’t do this before we get all serious.”

            Erika certainly agreed with that, especially if he kept touching and kissing her.  It felt beyond incredible, as if his touch reached all the way into her soul.

            Time was meaningless, but eventually Logan shifted back.  Erika took the movement as a signal to stand on her own feet again.  Enough distance between them that she could see him, admire him.  She couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him, especially since there was a little smile curving his mouth as well.

            “So,” Logan said; his voice seemed lighter than usual.  “Got any ideas for me?”

            Erika sighed, shaking her head slowly.  “Not a one.  I assume you want something simple?”

            “How’d you guess?”

            “Well, you don’t seem the dress up type to me.”  Erika smiled a little, shaking her head again.  “So I figured we could start by looking in ze closet.  Maybe we can find something in your clothes that will work.”

            Logan made a slight sound; disbelief, she noted.  “Just jeans, tees, flannels, and leather jackets.  Couple suits.  Boots.  That’s about it.”

            “Well let me see anyway.  Please, Logan?”  Erika looked up with her best pleading expression: eyes widened and lips pouting the slightest amount.

            Logan seemed to resist, though the moment was brief.  He soon sighed, shaking his head at her.  “All right, all right.  You’re not gonna be impressed though.”

            As Logan stepped away to his closet, Erika took a moment to actually look at his room.  She wasn’t surprised to see that the décor was much more minimal than her room.  Still, there was a homey feel to the space.  What was hung on the wall was mostly Japanese in origin.  Erika had picked up from offhand remarks from Logan and others in the school that he had lived in Japan for a time, if not had citizenship.  Most notable of the Japanese décor was a katana that was displayed on a low table across from his bed.

            Most interesting were the handful of framed pictures.  They were scattered about on various surfaces; the dresser, the nightstand, the bookshelf.  Erika recognized most of the people; predominantly, they were X-Men.  Logan was only in a few of them, and Erika noted that they were with his closer friends.  Most of the shots were candid.  A picture of him with Remy particularly caught her eye.  The pair were seated on one of the tables on the covered porch, each with a bottle of beer; they were laughing over a game of poker.  It was the only one where he was really grinning.

            A few other photographs were on the walls, printed in large versions.  Landscapes, mostly forests and snow-capped mountains.  One of the mountain photos was taken at sunset; the colors begged her to find some paint and recreate it even larger.  Each landscape had been taken with the same style; straightforward, but attentive, yet somehow intimate.  Erika couldn’t help but wonder if Logan had taken them.

            She would have to ask later.

            She drifted over to the closet, where Logan was already scowling again.  It was the same design as hers, though there was noticeably less clothing.  All that occupied the closet were flannels, jackets, jeans, and a few suits and ties.  A belt rack hung by itself over a few pairs of boots.

            “You could be a cowboy,” Erika said, mostly joking.

            Logan followed her gaze to a pair of cowboy boots.  His response was a sharp arch of his brow in her direction.  “Really?”

            Erika laughed, bright and airy.  She was further delighted when Logan managed a slight smile.  “No, not really.  Though this is much ‘arder than it was for me.  I ‘ave much more clothing to choose from.”

            “I’m a simple guy,” Logan replied with a shrug.  “Maybe it’s the military in me.”

            Erika hummed softly, eyes roaming over the clothes.  She kept drifting back to the leather jackets.  Logan had a few, though normally she only saw one, the dark brown with the stripes on the arms.  He had a lighter brown one, and a black one.  It was the black one that kept snagging her attention with a half formed idea.

            Finally it clicked, and she snapped her fingers.  “I know!  It will be perfect!”  She grabbed the black jacket without further explanation, followed by a dark pair of jeans.  When she turned back to Logan, she saw he was grinning.

            “I think we’re on the same page,” he said.  He glanced to his boots for a moment before looking back at Erika.  “Biker boots?”

            “Perfect,” Erika beamed.  “I know you ‘ave plenty shirts to pick from.  White, black, or gray would be best, I believe.”

            “Easy,” Logan replied.  “I’ll handle my hair.  I’d never have thought of it, though.  How do you see it?”

            Erika smiled, shrugging a little.  “Probably from too many years being overly excited for Halloween and dress up parties.”

            “Well thank you.  Jubs would have my hide if I didn’t dress up this year.”

            “You certainly don’t ‘ave to worry about that now.  Everyone will love it.  Trust me.”

            Logan smiled at her, softer than before.  “Don’t you know I already do?”


	15. Halloween

            Even from across the room Erika knew Logan’s costume came out perfect.

            It was simple, and that was the beauty of it.  A pair of well-fitted black jeans, his usual boots, a white tee, and over that a slick black leather jacket.  The finishing touch was his hair, styled a little different than usual, slicked back sharp from his face with a little tousled onto his brow.  While she’s left him simply at ‘greaser’, he looked convincingly like Danny Zuko.

            Erika smiled brightly, hitching up the froth of tulle that made most of her skirt.  It took a bit of work to push through the throng of dancing students.  Naturally Logan was off to the side, leaned up against the wall.  By the time she had finished making her way through, Logan had set his eyes on her.

            He greeted her with an appraising look and a lazy smile.  Erika hurried over, the loose off-the-shoulder sleeves on her corset billowing slightly behind her.  She greeted him with a bright grin, flashing the fake fangs she wore.

            “I told you it would be wonderful!” she said, raising her voice over the music.

            Logan grinned; his own fangs flashed, far sharper than the plastic teeth Erika had donned.  “Sure.  Hardly even feels like a costume.”

            “That was ze point.”  Erika shook her head a little, hands propped on her fists.  “But you intend to only stand ‘ere all night, don’t you?”

            “Already know me so well.  If y’wanna dance with someone, I’m sure Remy’s happy to oblige.  Can’t miss him.  He’s got those damn wings on.”

            Erika looked back over her shoulder.  It didn’t take long before her sweeping gaze found a pair of dark wings moving within the students.  She laughed a little to herself.  “The old Mardi Gras costume.  ‘E wore it that year I went.”

            “Wears it pretty much every year.  He’s way too attached to it.  But most everyone likes it.  Except Warren, but then again they don’t get along in the first place.  Rem could breathe and Wings would bitch about it.”

            “Such complicated relationships in this place,” Erika mused.

            “Believe me,” Logan replied, his voice gone dry and humorless, “you don’t know the half of it.  It’s a miracle some people don’t kill each other here.”

            Erika frowned.  Tonight was no night for brooding solemnity.  She nudged him with her elbow.  “Cheer up.  This is a party, not a normal night.”

            He frowned down at her.  “Are you saying I brood every night?”

            “You do most days; it can be assumed you brood at night also.”

            One of his eyebrows arched at her.  “Wasn’t brooding the other night at dinner.”

            Erika hated that her cheeks heated in a sudden blush.  Really, it was rather ridiculous how easily he affected her.  Even just a glance or graze of his hand could make her smile brighter or blossom a blush on her cheeks.  So different from before.

            “Per’aps we should ‘ave dinner more often, then,” she quipped, pushing past the fluttering in her heart.  “You deserve something that cheers you up.”

            Logan smirked, a little quirk of his lips.  “Are you asking me on a date?”

            “Well-  More suggesting it, I suppose.”  She lifted her chin, trying to fight against the increasing heat in her cheeks.  “It’s only an idea.”

            “A good idea.  Though I’d suggest more than just getting dinner.”

            “I suppose we can figure zat out as we go, _non_?”

            Logan grinned at her.  “Sure.  Now I know you don’t wanna just stand here and chat all night.  Go out and dance.  I’m fine on my own.”

            Erika pouted a little; she couldn’t quite help herself.  “Are you sure?”

            The back of his fingers brushed against her cheek for a second.  “Positive.  And, unfortunately, as a chaperone I should be focusing.  Gotta make sure kids don’t sneak off and get in trouble.”

            She smiled at him, if only a little.  “All right.  But I’ll be back.  You won’t be getting rid of me that easy, Logan.”

            He gave a brief laugh and a shake of his head.  “Who said I’d want to?”

***

            The dance ran for hours, and Erika enjoyed every second.  She danced alone mostly, though Remy joined her once or twice for kicks.  During her breaks to grab a drink, she mostly spent time with Logan; as much as he wouldn’t admit it, he seemed to be enjoying his stoic observing.  When not talking to him, Erika found herself cheerfully associating with other X-Men and students alike.  She chatted with Jubilee and Laura, Bobby Drake, Kitty Pryde, Storm, Remy, even Jean and Scott for a brief spell, and plenty others.  It was no surprise at the end of the night that she was exhausted.  Between the dancing and socializing, Erika was thoroughly worn out.

            She had finished her part of cleaning duty at the drink station.  Erika leaned back against the wall to watch the rest of the teachers cleaning up what they would that night.  The larger decorations would wait until another day.

            If she was honest with herself, she was watching Logan mostly.  He and Remy were pulling down some of the orange and black streamers and paper chains that had hung low on the walls.  Logan was laughing at something Remy said, the long papers slung over his shoulders like long scarves.  He looked at ease, carefree, happy.  It was such a rare thing that she couldn’t stop looking.

            She wasn’t surprised when Logan turned abruptly to look at her.  His smile that had started to fade came back full strength.  He tipped a playful salute to her before continuing with his assignment.  Erika tried to keep the excessive smile off her face.

            A sigh came off to her left.  Erika looked over, smiling when she saw Storm leaning against the wall beside her.  The weather goddess looked over to her, pale eyes twinkling with a smile.

            “Logan seems more cheerful than usual lately,” Storm remarked.  “Would you say so?”

            Erika shrugged a little.  “I suppose ‘e is.  Smiling more easily, for certain.”

            Storm hummed.  She looked out over to the pair who had burst into laughter again.  “I thought so as well.”  She was quiet a moment before speaking up again.  “I consider Remy my brother; we’re quite close.  He tells me most things, but he was doing something in secret a few nights ago.  All he told me was that it was for a couple of friends.  Would you know anything about it?”

            Erika pressed her lips into a line, trying to fight her smile.  She knew plenty about it, but did she dare say anything?  She and Logan hadn’t discussed anything about what was blooming between them.  It would be unfair of her to say anything to confirm or deny it to anyone in the mansion.

            Storm laughed; the sound was as warm as a summer night that promised rain.  “Your silence and expression speak for you, Erika.  Did my brother set up a blind date for you and Logan?”

            “You could call it that,” Erika supplied.  What point was there in denying it when she obviously had connected the dots herself.

            Storm smiled at her kindly.  “There’s nothing wrong with that.  Jean and Logan were never meant to last.  He’s happy with you, and I’m glad to see that.  Logan has been through much, and there has been much pain in his life.  He deserves some good, some kindness.  I hope you can give that to him.”

            “I’ll do my best,” Erika promised.  Logan had yet to truly open up to her about his long past, but she knew enough from what he had referenced and what others had said to know his life had been full of sorrows.  She couldn’t bear to add to that pain.

            “That’s all we ever can do.  Now, it has been a long night,” Storm sighed, “and I have an early class.  Goodnight, Erika.”

            “ _Bonne nuit_ ,” she replied with a smile.  She watched Storm leave, but the sound of footsteps made her turn her head.  It was no surprise to see Logan, or the little crooked grin he offered.

            “Good night, eh?”

            Erika hummed, clasping her hands before herself.  “A wonderful one, really.  Did you enjoy yourself?”

            “More than I expected to,” Logan replied.  “Don’t tell Jubes.”

            “Your secret is certainly safe with me.”  She trailed off into a sudden yawn.

            “Bedtime already?” Logan asked.  “Not used to long nights?”

            Erika hummed, smiling a little.  “Opera rehearsals and auditions tend to begin a bit early.  I like to keep my sleeping schedule steady so I won’t be too tired at them.”

            “Okay,” he said softly.  His hand brushed back some of her hair from her eyes.  “Let me walk you up?”

            Erika smiled brightly.  “Of course.”

            Logan walked close beside her out of the room.  Only once they had put a fair distance between them and the rest of the people still awake did he reach out and take her hand.  Erika squeezed his hand gently.  Their silence was companionable, and after such a long night, welcome.  Only when they were approaching Erika’s room did Logan speak up.

            “Y’know, I feel like I should ask,” he drawled, voice gone low and lazy.  “Trick or treat?”

            “What?” Erika asked with a sudden laugh.  “Why?  What for?”

            “I have a reason,” Logan replied.  “Just pick one.”

            Erika stopped at her door, humming in thought, even though she had already made it.  “Treat, I suppose.”

            “Good choice,” Logan replied.  The low rumble of his voice chased a shiver down Erika’s spine.

            He hand curled feather light around the back of her neck.  Erika hummed, leaning up into him in conditioned response, arms reaching around broad shoulders, feeling soft leather under her fingertips.  The kiss was slow, leaving a low burning under her skin.

            There was a sudden, brief flare of sharp pressure on her lip.  Erika made an abrupt sound, muffled by his lips, her body drawing taut as some intense _feeling_ poured through her.  Logan leaned back, gently ending their kiss.  Erika’s questioning sound was met with a smirk.

            “A little bit of trick,” he said softly.  His thumb brushed over the spot on her lip; it gave a faint throb in response.  His teeth flashed in the dark hall, and Erika knew that one of those sharp teeth had set briefly on her skin.

            Erika found herself smiling, though.  “I can’t say I’m surprised by it.”

            “Already know me pretty well,” he replied.  The quirk of his mouth spoke of bemusement.  “Should let you go, though.  You’re tired.”

            Logan was right.  She was more tired than she could remember being in a while, but it was a satisfying feeling.  His lips touched her forehead as they whispered quiet goodnights.  His hand lingered on hers, not withdrawing the touch until it was necessary.  Erika watched him go for a moment before she slipped into her own room.

            When she lay curled up in bed, she found herself pressing gently against the spot on her lip.  The slight fluttering throb echoed through her whole body.


	16. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I haven't done much research on working in an opera, so any inaccuracies are my fault! Because of my lack of knowledge, I'll do my best to avoid what I don't know.

            The first day of November was brisk, but it didn’t stop Erika from rushing out.  It was the first day of rehearsals for _The Magic Flute_.  Excitement jittered under her skin even in the dark of early morning.

            The mansion housed a communal garage where everyone who had a car left theirs.  Public vehicles owned by Xavier had keys hanging on the wall, while private vehicles keys remained with their owner.  Erika had her own car, a simple and modest Ford, practical and American.  It was a metallic black, and in bright sunlight the chrome shimmered with a kaleidoscope of color.  On the tailgate was a bumper sticker of the Eiffel Tower.

            Of course Erika didn’t drive into New York City.  That was madness.  She had a nearly hour commute from the town the X-Men lived outside of to a station that would ride into the city’s subway system.  Once in the city, she grabbed the 1 Seventh Avenue Local subway and rode to the stop for the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts where the Metropolitan Opera House stood.  The Lincoln Center composed of a variety of other performing halls and theaters that housed the New York Philharmonic and the New York City Ballet.

            Timing could be incredibly precarious, so she made sure to leave quite early to make up for any traffic or other delays.  It usually left her arriving at the opera early, but she didn’t mind.  She brought her script and a book to entertain herself.

            She was not the first to arrive that morning; a few other girls were waiting in the communal dressing room.  Erika was somewhat hesitant to join them.  At the Palais Garnier she had had her own dressing room.  But then she had been the constant prima donna, not a principal character of a production that would only show a few times before the schedule moved forward.

            Erika shrugged to herself and decided to enter the room.  She sat herself apart from the other girls, bringing her feet up into her chair.  She pulled out her book, but before she could really sink into reading, one of the girls spoke up from their quiet conversation.

            “Hey.  You’re the French chick, right?”

            Erika couldn’t help the bemused smile that flitted at her mouth.  “What gave it away?” she asked, looking over towards the cluster of girls.

            One of them, a redhead, nodded towards her book.  “That’s French.  And we didn’t recognize you.”

            “We all know each other here,” a brunette chimed in.  “Though we don’t all get along.”

            “Of course not,” Erika replied.  “No one ever does in an opera ‘ouse.  Too much opportunity for rivalry among ourselves.”

            “Did you work in an opera house long before here?” asked the first girl.

            “A few years.  I was in Le Palais Garnier – the Paris opera.”  She almost added in her status, but thought better of it.  It wouldn’t do to seem haughty when she was so fresh in this city.

            “I see.”  The redhead looked at her for a moment, and Erika looked back, calm and quiet.  She finally spoke up again.  “You do know how hard your role is, right?”

            “ _Oui_ ,” Erika smiled.  She had seen _The Magic Flute_ before and remembered that the Queen of the Night had quite impressive arias.  “It’s a coloratura soprano, but it would not be the first time I ‘ave done it.”  Érichad insisted she learn the art of embellished singing.  She remembered in her interview the pleased look that the managers and maestro had when she had answered in the affirmative when they had questioned her about it.

            “Well it’s an awfully harsh language for someone who speaks French,” the woman continued.

            Erika’s eyebrows lifted.  She didn’t have to consult with her empathic abilities to know that the woman was jealous of her.  It seemed the rivalries would begin early.

            “What is your name?” Erika asked softly.

            The redhead frowned, but answered: “Maggie.”

            “Maggie,” Erika echoed.  “A pleasure to meet you.  My name is Erika.  And I can assure you, Maggie, that if the Queen of the Night proves too difficult, I will step down from the role.”  Erika turned away, opened her book again, and began to read.

***

            The rehearsal flew by, and Erika was certainly smug to be the singer with the least critique after running through all the songs.  The singing certainly wasn’t easy, but Erika had practiced every day since being cast, and it had paid off.  Maggie had thrown her a sharp look while everyone had been leaving, but Erika could ignore that much.

            She stopped at her car to look at her phone.  She had a texts she hadn’t opened before leaving for the opera, and seemingly a few since then, so she started to open them.  Unsurprisingly she had one from each parent wishing her well on her first day and a reminder to call later in the week to tell them about it.  A few others from friends in church and the opera back home.  One from Éric, also far from a surprise.  One from Logan that made her smile brighter than the rest; _Kick ass at the opera today_ was all it said, but it was so simply him that she was delighted.  She typed up a quick assurance that she had before looking at the last.

            Vivienne Lacroix.  The message from here was unsurprising.  Vivienne had also been a student in the Conservatoire de Paris, as well as Erika’s best friend there.  The two girls made a lovely duo, Vivienne’s strawberry blonde hair and brown eyes in contrast to Erika’s dark curls and blue eyes.  Heartbreakers, others had joked, but that title belonged more to Vivienne than Erika.

            After the conservatory, Erika had rose swiftly in rank at the opera.  Vivienne had always preferred playing music over singing, but she found a seat in the opera’s orchestra, allowing the friends to stay in each other’s lives with similar schedules.  The two girls had remained close through Erika’s three years in Paris, and kept in touch after she had left.

            Vivienne’s message was, as always, cheerful and full of exclamation marks and emojis.  And an order to call as soon as Erika could, regardless of the time.  Erika got into her car, rolling down the windows enough to catch a bit of the breeze, before calling her friend.

            There were only two rings before Vivienne answered.  “Erika!  How was it?  Did you trample everyone with the most amazing singing they’ve ever heard?”

            Erika laughed, and when she spoke, she lapsed easily back into French.  “It went well!  I don’t know if I trampled anyone, but I do have a rival it seems.”

            “Already?  Who?”

            “Her name is Maggie,” Erika said with a loud sigh.  “Good enough voice, I suppose, but not Queen of the Night worthy.”

            “Plenty of people aren’t,” Vivienne chirped.  “But you are!  You can do any role it always seems; soprano, mezzo soprano, coloratura, non-operatic.  Honestly it’s quite incredible.  I still think it’s part of the whole mutant powers that you have.”

            “I simply have a far range.  It’s not like I can hit every not that there is.”

            “No, just most of them!  You’re certainly better than the lady we have now.  Poor girl isn’t bad, but she’s no Erika Deforest.  No one is Erika Deforest except you.  New York is lucky to have you and maybe they’ll finally get their heads out of their asses and realize it.”

            Erika laughed.  It was so like Vivienne to cut directly to the point and not soften her words at all.

            Their conversation rambled on for a bit with updates on their lives.  Vivienne and her long-term boyfriend were going on a fifth anniversary dinner.  Vivienne sounded terribly excited about it, wondering aloud if he would be proposing sometime on the date; Erika assured her that he probably would; the pair had been in love for ages it seemed.  Erika wasn’t surprised to find herself straying to fussing over the spot that Logan’s teeth had scraped over last night.  She hadn’t told Vivienne or her parents any details other than she was talking with a man after a nice dinner date – and she wouldn’t say anything, not yet.  Not until things were more certain.

            After a few minutes, the women said their goodbyes and hung up, Vivienne likely to fall asleep, Erika with a full evening ahead of her.  She had no illusions to the fact that she would still have training to do regularly.  Not that Erika minded training.  It was an hour at least with Logan, alone, sometimes shirtless . . . no, certainly not something to complain about.

            Erika laughed at herself, shaking her head as she pulled out of the parking lot and started her drive back to the mansion.  She wondered absently if Logan had missed her at all, if he’d had any time to.  She wouldn’t ask, of course, but she wondered.


End file.
